


et florum magica: (And the Magic of Flowers)

by wiccanstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, F/M, Florist Castiel, Ghost Anna, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Former Drug Abuse, M/M, Magic-Users, Minor Character Death, Mystery, Necromancy, Pagan God Dean, Police Officer Jessica, Police Officer Sam, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, Witch Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 07:10:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2683874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wiccanstiel/pseuds/wiccanstiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s a large, leafless tree and a road, a hand on a gnarled cane, a stoutly man in a black suit, his face scratched out.</p><p>When Castiel Novak moves to the small town of Fox Hollow, he’s looking for a fresh start. Only his past seems to be–quite literally–haunting him, and even through his best efforts of settling into his new life, there’s a darkness in the shadows that he can’t seem to shake. And after meeting an otherworldly being named Dean during what was supposed to be a simple walk through the forest, he’s left with more questions than answers. But like it’s residents, Fox Hollow has some well-kept secrets, and things quickly turn to life or death when one of those secrets finally steps from the shadows and into the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> **  
>  [ART MASTERPOST](http://prinzik.livejournal.com/994.html)   
>  **
> 
>  
> 
> First of all, holy crap! I made it! (mostly.) This year was my first DCBB, and it really was a learning experience. Six months of nothing but constant writing can change a person. 
> 
> I'd really love to thank [jamie](goshcas.tumblr.com), for being a wonderfully supportive beta, [PRINZIK](prinzik.tumblr.com), for being an incredibly patient and talented artist,[nhixxie](astrasperas.tumblr.com), for dealing with my stupid insecurities and general dcbb wailing, [mannie](malcolmreynlds.tumblr.com), for listening to me ramble (repeatedly) about my story, and [putticas](putticas.tumblr.com), [almaasi](almaasi.tumblr.com), [michi](freetobeyouandmichi-me.tumblr.com), and [cee](ceeaintthereforthat.tumblr.com) for listening to my rants and still sticking with me through the very end. 
> 
> To preface this fic: I don't give Dean a specific name or religion mainly because I'm an eclectic pagan, and feel it'd be disrespectful to my personal gods and to other cultures to pluck one out and stick another character inside of them. 
> 
> Also, Cas is a wiccan, it's just not super heavily enforced throughout the fic. A lot of his actions are from my personal experiences/research. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

                                                    

 

_prologue._

qui·et

**ˈkwīət/**

_adjective_

  1. making little or no noise.  
 _synonyms:_ silent, still, hushed, noiseless, soundless;  
  


  2. carried out discreetly, secretly, or with moderation.  
 _synonyms:_ private, confidential, secret, discreet;




_noun_

  1. absence of noise or bustle; silence; calm.




 

pe·cu·liar

**pəˈkyo͞olyər/**

_adjective_

  1. strange or odd; unusual.  
 _synonyms:_ strange, unusual, odd, funny, curious, bizarre, weird, queer, unexpected, unfamiliar, abnormal, atypical, anomalous, out of the ordinary




 

His first impression of Fox Hollow had been: quiet. Of course his opinion changed after time, from quiet to quaint to strange to special all in the course of a year, but that was not important just now. Right now, he was driving into town, and it was quiet.

 

_i._

The early morning fog clings to everything. It's as if a thick blanket of it has been thrown over the entire town, muting colors and making the thin layer of frost coating homes and trees glitter slightly in the soft gray light. He isn't a stranger to fog; although where he’d been living the past year, it had been smog, condensation mixing with air pollution creating something thick and suffocating that made him want to curl up in a corner of his apartment and never crawl out. It's different here. Cleaner. Fresher.

6:27 am.

It isn’t as if the town is making him uneasy, in fact, he likes the quiet. It's peaceful, in a way. According to the map he's only just driving into the west edge of town, the houses a little more spread out here, but it's already growing on him, the lush plantlife and quaint homes a stark difference from the crowded bustling city he’d been stuffed and stuck in for the past year. Of course, it's colder. Castiel generally dislikes the cold, as most plants can’t live in low temperatures and it stifles and drains his energy, making him easily susceptible to all kinds of illnesses. As if to prove this point, his nose begins to run and he sniffs, cursing the cold air.

It's why he's wearing Anna’s old necklace, a pendant of rose quartz hung on a strip of leather. Her energy still resides inside of it, comforts him like she used to, warm tendrils of familial love and protection curling from the center of it whenever he needs it most. But right now it's cold too, and Castiel is reluctant to tuck it into his sweater.

He reaches an intersection and checkes the map, no other cars in sight. He can see the silhouette of an owl through the fog sitting in the tree across the way, and he stops and stares at it through the layer of condensation covering the window. There hadn’t been owls in the city, or even on his mother’s estate. When he’d been in the city he’d made peace that he’d probably never see living wildlife in this lifetime. He’s never been happier to be wrong.

The light turns red and Meg yawns and stretches beside him, sitting up and purring softly, staring at the owl with him.

He smiles and shakes his head, scratching her behind the ears before reaching for the GPS unit that'll tell them which way to turn. But before he can touch anything, the screen glitches, shards of green and purple flashing through the display like some sort of electrical seizure. Cas sits in shock, watching the screen twist and glitch, finally shutting itself off just as the owl flaps up from it’s perch, swooping over the traffic lights and quickly out of sight.

Meg meows softly, curling back up to begin grooming her tortoiseshell coat, splotches of orange and black fur dulled by the lack of light.

He sighs, reaching past her for the folded map he’d stashed in the glove compartment just in case. He and technology do not get along, so he came prepared, pulling a leather pouch out with it. Inside is an indigo crystal on a silver chain and a small bottle of ink. He unscrews the cap and carefully dips the tip of the crystal inside, moving to hold it over the map placed in his lap. Castiel mumbles a simple spell and the pendant drops to a spot on the map, ink marking it’s place, as his hand moves almost without his consent, creating a black trail for him to follow. He lifts the crystal from the map and wipes it clean before storing it and the ink back into the pouch, placing it next to Meg before studying the map and continuing through the intersection.

The cottage he's headed for seems to be at the opposite side of town he’d entered from, at the edge of the woods. He can feel a quiet sort of excitement building up in his chest. He used to dream of being surrounded by plantlife, of the earthy smell in the mornings when he’d step off his porch and dig his feet into the damp dirt while the birds awoke and dew began to dissipate from the leaves of trees. Now he’s going to live it.

A few minutes later he's turning onto a small side road, gravel crunching under his tires and the trees, both dead for the winter and ones thriving in the cold weather, whip past his line of vision. He slows a bit when the trees clear, the old cottage coming into view as the road curves and stops. He shuts off the engine and makes his way to the front door, carefully stepping over the wild grasses that had taken over the front yard. The key sticks in the lock and he has to jiggle it violently before pulling the squeaky door open, instantly sneezing at the dust it kicks up. He takes a cautious step inside and looks around.

The front room, which is what he suspects he’s stepped into, was emptied out and close to shambles. He knows the place is old, knows it’d need fixing up, but it's still more than he’d anticipated. There are vines creeping through a busted window, some of the floorboards are torn up, the front windows are so dirty he can barely see through them, and there's soot from the fireplace in the next room scattered all about the place.

Castiel quickly begins mentally cataloging the damage and what it’d cost to repair. He can still feel some of the protective spells his uncle had cast over the place, faded and weak. He surveyes the rest of the one-bedroom cottage, seeing the extent of the damage a forest can do to a home. The window in the kitchen is shattered and vines are creeping up the ceiling there, various tiles on the floor cracked and smashed, the counters covered with a thick film of dust. The bathroom, bedroom, living room and hallway is much of the same, and he sighs. It’ll take more than a couple hours and a whole lot of energy to make things livable again.

He decides to first put the spells back up. Normally they’d be redone every year, lest they let unwanted things in, but this place hadn’t been touched by another witch until he’d arrived. It really is in his best interest to replace them as soon as possible. Castiel toes off his shoes, leaving his socks on so his feet won’t freeze on the hard ground. He walks back out to where he approximates is the center of the front yard and stands feet apart, hands up, taking a few deep breaths to ground himself.

He's poised to begin the spell when he hears a loud bark from behind him. It's the only warning he gets before he's body-slammed to the ground by a large, warm, furry body that is very focused on licking as much of his face as physically possible.

“Bones!” he hears a voice shout, heavy footfalls following it. “Bones, no!”

The dog in question is quickly pulled back, still barking and jumping, a very large, very tall man holding it by the collar.

“Man, I’m so sorry, he’s usually never like this. Bones, sit!” the man yells, and Bones sits with a whine, tail still waving erratically.

“Here,” he offers his hand, and Castiel stares at it. “We don’t bite, promise.”

Castiel looks at his hand again and cautiously takes it. He's hauled to his feet and handed what looked like a bandana, and promptly begins wiping the saliva off of his face.

“Thank you…” Castiel hands it back, words trailing off when he realized the man hasn’t given him his name.

“Sam,” he quickly replies, tucking his hands into his pockets. “Sam Winchester.”

“Oh. Well, nice to meet you Sam, I’m… Castiel Novak.”

“Oh!” Sam points at him and turns to the run-down cottage, noticing the U-Haul parked to the side. “So you are the new guy.”

Castiel’s eyebrows scrunch together and he opens his mouth to say something, but Sam cuts him off with a wave of a hand and a grin.

“Don’t worry, I’m a police officer, not a stalker. The station’s right next to the town hall and Fox Hollow’s pretty small. We don’t get many new residents.”

“Ah.” Castiel wiggles his toes, cold seeping through his socks and numbing his feet. He scrunches them up again in agitation. He can’t get any kind of reading off Sam. Usually, he’d be able to judge someone quite easily, see their true intentions or get hints of their thoughts and feelings, but right now he just… can’t. It's frustrating beyond belief.

“So, hey, how about I help you sweep up the place? I doubt it’s clean enough to start moving stuff in, it’s been sitting here for over a year.”

Castiel frowns. “Why would you want to do that?”

Sam shrugs, picking Bones’ leash up off the ground. “Just wanna help out the new guy, is all. Didn’t mean to offend.” He smiles.

He smiles, and Castiel knows he's going to get his way.

Five minutes later Sam's sweeping away, hair tucked behind his ears while Bones sits outside the house on one of Castiel’s old jackets. Castiel's in the kitchen, muttering incantations under his breath to fix the broken tiles. He keeps looking over his shoulder, making sure Sam can’t see him through the archway that connected the living room and the kitchen. Learning about witch hunts wasn’t fun and Castiel's fairly sure the real thing isn’t any better.

He stands up from where he’d been crouching and walks over to a patch of broken tiles near the back door. He sucks in a deep breath and then begins the spell, altering a few phrases so the cracks will stay while the tiles stuck. He watches his hand glimmer, a deep orange glow, ancient energy saturating the blood that flowed through his veins. It dances to the tip of his fingertips as he pressed his hand to the ground, focusing his energy, feeling his palm warm.

As suddenly as it began, the spell ends, having finished it’s work. He feels only cold tile under his skin and lifts his arm, admiring the job he'd done. It really does look as if he’d glued the pieces back down with the superglue tucked in his back pocket.

He makes his way over to the busted window and frowns. He likes the vine. It hasn’t done anything bad. If he completely fixes the window, he’d have to cut it, which seems awfully rude. He contemplated this for a minute before coming to a decision, although he wasn’t entirely sure it would work. He placed his fingers on the glass and dragged them down as he whispered his spell, the broken pane fixing itself as he did so. He checked the now-whole window, and saw what his magic had done. There was a small groove in the wood at the top so the plant could still grow, but the window could close. Castiel was delighted, having never tried something so experimental before.

“Hey,” Sam smiles in amusement when Castiel jumps, whipping around to find him leaning against the archway, broom in hand with little wisps of hair clinging to his forehead. “Uh, I’m done in these rooms, so if you—wasn’t that window broken?”

“Hm?” Castiel looks back and stares at the window, faking confusion. “No. There’s a crack in the frame letting that in,” he points to the vine, “but it’s not broken.”

“Oh.” He frowns for a moment, then shrugs. “Well, I came to tell you that I was going to finish up the other rooms, but it’s nearly time for me to get to work, so…”

“Oh, yes, yes.” Castiel steps forward, waving a hand. “Go to work, I can finish things up here.”

“You sure?”

“It’s just dust and dirt, Sam. I’ll be fine.”

“Alright,” he laughs. “See you around, Cas.”

Cas watches him untie Bones and lay his old coat over the side of the truck, waiting until he's out of sight to step outside and replace the old spells.

It's positioned out there in front of Joshua’s old cottage, early in the morning, birds chirping and the air bitter cold, that he feels more at home than he has in years.

* * *

 

It's standing in front of the open truck, hands at his sides, that Castiel realizes he really didn’t have much. There are a couple rugs folded up in a corner, some essential pieces of furniture, a couple dressers and desks, boxes of clothes and trinkets. Not nearly enough to fill up an entire home.

He sighs, breathing in deep and feeling the tingling waves of energy roll through his body. The house is close to clean, ready to be filled and settled. Empty and waiting. He’ll do what he could now and look around the town later.

He can still sense a vague imprint of Joshua and Anna surrounding the property, and as comforting as it is, he hopes it fades soon. The now-painful childhood memories of summer forests, of Anna and gardening with Joshua's gentle guidance, teaching him to care for plants like you would a person, plagues him here.

Castiel takes another deep breath in and closes his eyes, slowly raising his arms. He extends them like he's reaching for a hug, bending his hands back farther as the familiar warmth starts in his chest and spreads from palm to fingertips.

He cracks his eyes open and watches as the rugs first rise from the ground, wobbling slightly, and float out of the truck, the rest of his belongings following suit. Huffing and out a breath, he drops one of his arms and takes a couple steps back, making sure everything is following each other in an orderly fashion. He’s had incidents before, and he's not going to let them happen again.

Satisfied there will be no repeat incident, he lets both arms relax (palms still radiating deep orange), following the line into the house to make sure everything is being put in the right place.

“No, no, no,” he sighs, looking at his box of seeds on the floor. “You go on the kitchen counter, not the ground.”

“And you,” he turns and watches as a small dresser stops dead in the middle of living room, “you’re in that corner, not in front of the fireplace.”

It quickly turns and bumps into the wall, turning again and finding it’s place, landing with a dull _thunk_. Seeing as everything else is going well, he slumps into his old armchair, feeling it shudder under his sudden weight and fall to the floor with a rattling thud. Castiel glares silently at the frayed blue fabric, wishing his possessions weren’t such imbeciles when it came to moving. It takes him a couple minutes, but he manages to relax amidst the racket of everything settling in, focusing on the flow of energy, keeping it even and smooth. He easily slips into a deep trance, allowing his body to replenish the energy he's quickly losing.

 

The incessant ringing of his phone is the first thing Castiel recognizes as he jerks awake. He groggily tries to get his bearings as he fumbles for the device, finally pulling it out of his back pocket and answering with a muttered, “Hello?”

“Castiel? It’s Rufus Turner.”

“Oh. Oh, yes.” Castiel blinked the crust from his eyes and quickly looked around, realizing everything was in place. “I’m sorry, I fell asleep.”

“I thought so. Listen, I just wanna get this will business over already, I’m at the storage center off the highway, exit 34. You got a car?”

“I… have the moving truck—”

“Great. Get down here soon, it’s fuckin’ freezing.”

“I-” the call ends abruptly, and Castiel frowns at his phone screen. He’ll never understand how Rufus and Joshua were related. Moreover, he’ll never understand why both him and Anna had named Rufus as their Executor of their wills. They had rarely, if ever, talked, let alone trusted each other enough with their possessions while they were alive.

Scrubbing a hand over his face, he stands, nearly stepping on Meg, who's meowing at his feet, purring and rubbing her face all over his pants. He’d let her out earlier, and she’d gone running into the forest, quite relieved after the hours spent on the road. He pours her some food and jogs out to the truck, the crunch of gravel under his tires loud in the silent cab as he pulls out onto the main road. He notices, with a frown, that the GPS unit is still off. He hopes the company won’t charge him for it.

4:29 pm.

 

It's already getting dark by the time he pulls into the storage lot’s parking, pulling up the hood of a jacket he’d thrown on earlier to protect himself from the icy rain. The sky is still an endless, murky gray, reflecting his feelings on the meeting.

Unit 87.

He can see Rufus’ dark figure near the end of the almost endless row of units, turned away from him. Castiel nearly spins and walks right back to the truck, dreading what Rufus will have to say to him. The finality of it all is finally reaching him, settling in his chest like a dark and heavy stone.

But before he can act on his impulses Rufus turns and spots him, beckoning him forward with a wave of his hand.

“So,” Rufus starts, once Castiel is in hearing range, “you ready?”

“Not really, but I’m assuming that doesn’t really matter.”

“Nope.” he answers, rubbing his hands together and pulling out a piece of paper, the pit in Castiel’s chest constricting around his lungs and making it hard to breathe.

Rufus clears his throat and begins reading.

“I, Annael Milton, being an adult of sound mind and body, do decree and declare this to be my last will and testament. I revoke all blah blah blah…” Rufus hummed to himself as he read through the contents of Anna’s will. Castiel could feel his eyes prickling and blinked rapidly.

“Ah, here we go. To my cousin, Castiel Milton, I devise, bequeath, and give the contents of storage container #87 at blah blah blah… and my 1969 Pontiac Firebird.”

Castiel blinks in surprise. Anna had given him her car. Rufus folds the will back up and tucked it into his pocket, pulling a set of keys out in the same movement.

“Alright,” he huffed, unlocking the unit and lifting the door, looking odd in his work ordered-trench as it drags across the wet ground. “As of now, everything in here,” he motions to the contents of the container, which consists of Anna’s copper colored Firebird, cardboard boxes, and from what Castiel can tell, some pieces of furniture, “is yours. Do with it what you will, I really don’t care.” He pauses for a second and frowns. “Girl left some awfully strange things with people. Makes you wonder, huh?”

Castiel looks over at Rufus. As brazen and anti-social as the man was, he did his job, and he did it well. He’s had every gruesome detail of the accident at his fingertips. Why would he, of all people, question what went on?

“It was—it was an accident, though. Hit a tree, ejected into the river,” Castiel swallowed. He could feel the prickling at the back of his eyes again. “Found downstream two days later.”

“Yeah but, really, what kind of twenty-six year old writes a will? She was a, what, clairvoyant?”

Castiel feels himself nodding mutely, surrounded by memories of all the times she’d called him up and told him not to go to the market that day, or to wait on getting the mail until later, helping avoid all sorts of dangers, both mundane and potentially life threatening.

“Look, all I know is that they were driving on an empty road at four in the afternoon, and that girl could fuckin’ see the future—” he waves off Castiel’s attempt at telling him that that isn’t exactly how it worked, “shut up, I know. The cops can blabber on all they want about how Joshua was old and could have lost control, about fuckin’ animals jumpin’ out or whatever. Something weird happened.”

“Any number of things could have caused the crash,” Castiel echoes his mother. “We’ll probably never find out.”

Rufus snorts. “Yeah, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Castiel stares at the orange tin roof of the storage container, the _plink, plink, plink_  of icy raindrops. He’d forced himself to accept that it was nothing more than a freak accident that killed his uncle and cousin. If he hadn’t, he probably would have drove himself mad looking for an answer. And now Rufus is opening that door back up, letting theories and accusations run wild through his mind. He isn’t sure he can take it.

“Well!” Rufus clapss his hands together, making Castiel jump. “Nothing we can do about it now.” He steps forward and peers into the interior of the car. “And lookit’ that.” he calls out. “She even left you some gas.”

Castiel looks up to see Rufus pull out a red gas container. He walks down to the Firebird and trails his fingers over the hood, ending at the handle of the driver’s side. He can still remember the day she bought it, two summer’s worth of work (with a small bonus and some haggling) paying off into a beautiful old car that still ran like a champ.

“Oh! I almost forgot,” he looks up to see Rufus digging in his pockets, pulling out two sets of keys. He tosses them over to Castiel, who catches them just in time. “Those are the keys to the car and Joshua’s old shop, the property he left you. Don’t lose ‘em.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. ‘Cause you’re paying if you need new ones. You’re lucky I’m not forcing you to pay the bill for the months you left this stuff sitting here. They don’t waive it just ‘cause somebody died. Now, let’s get some air in these tires and drop that U-Haul of yours off, alright?”

Castiel frowns. “Why are you being so kind to me?” It wasn’t like him to do something that didn’t also help Rufus himself.

Rufus looks up at him. “Because I got a case back at work involving a psychopathic murderer and a whole lot of dead bodies that I really don’t want to deal with right now.”

A beat passes, and he sigh and rolls his eyes. “We gonna hit the road or not?”

 

7:19 pm.

 

It's the time his phone reads by the time he pulls back up to the cottage, shrouded in the type of winter darkness that swallows everything in it’s path. He can barely see the mist of his breath in the air as he makes his way to the front door, the fine blanket of snow that had fallen an hour earlier making the grass crunch slightly under his feet.

He looked around as he jiggled the lock. He felt exposed, like someone was staring at the back of his neck. It wasn’t pleasant and made the hair on his arms stand up, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he shut the door behind him.

Inside wasn’t much warmer than out, and he hurried to start a fire, thankful that there were logs already in place. It took a couple tries, but he managed to get a small fire going, the light from the flames flickering across the walls.

Castiel gave a sigh of relief and sat back on the couch, rubbing his hands together for heat. He was thinking about whether he had enough blankets when he caught a flash of red in his peripheral vision, quickly turning to the window, frowning when there was nothing but darkness there. He turned back to the fast-growing fire, but couldn’t shake the feeling of something… _off_.

The feeling persisted even after he’d gotten up and started a kettle of tea, the sudden whistling of boiling water making him jump in place, eyes trained on the window. It felt almost as if there was something there that shouldn’t. He couldn’t make sense of it, only that it made his heart thump in his chest and the hairs on the back of his neck tingle uncomfortably. He was reluctant to turn and make his tea, the knowledge that he’d replaced the spells earlier that day his only comfort.

The strange prickling only gets more intense as he grabs at the dried mint and ginger, making tea as quickly as he can manage. The heat radiating from his mug warms his hands but does little to comfort him, heart still pumping anxiously.

Another flash of red, another long look of nothing—he's getting too worked up. He's being irrational, he tells himself. He gets up to go to bed; sleep will help calm his mind.

He turns to look at the window one last time, for his nerves. He barely registers his mug slipping from his fingers, the sound of it shattering, the burning hot water splashing all over his feet. He's frozen in place, his own terrified eyes reflected back at him in the glass—because just beyond that, is Anna.

Castiel can’t breathe. She isn’t how he remembered. Not at all. Her hair lays limp around her face and her eyes are solid white, no pupil, nothing, and he can’t blink, can’t move. Her skin is pale, purple veins running from around her eyelids to her ears, her parted lips unnaturally dark, almost brown, veins visible from the corners of her mouth down to her neck.

He can feel every hair on his body standing on end as the _thing_ simply stands there.

Then he blinks, and she's gone.

 

                                          

 


	2. ii

_ii._

By the time he finishes breakfast the next morning, he’s managed to convince himself it was a hallucination. Too much of her energy around him, an over-tired mind, that kind of thing. It could happen to anyone, he reasons.

But he can’t help the nagging feeling in his gut that that’s _not_ what it was, the small, quiet voices being pushed into a corner whispering that _it was real._ He ignores them and stretches, the familiar ache settling in his bones that always comes from extended uses of magic. Castiel groans when he hears his hip pop, shivering when the blanket falls away. It’s _cold. Too_ cold. He pulls the blanket up with him and shuffles over to the box that holds his clothes, having been too tired (and too freaked out)  last night to make them fold and put themselves away in the dresser sitting under the window on the far side of the room. He shuffles around, trying his best not to put the flat of his foot on the horribly cold floor, pulling a sweater over his t-shirt and sweatpants and two pairs of socks, because just one doesn’t provide sufficient enough protection. He stumbles into the kitchen, starting the kettle and pulling down his oatmeal. He ends up back in the bathroom, staring at the cracked tub and and the sink, trying to will the water into being hot enough to stick his hands under.

Jerking back two minutes later, spitting out curses as his face freezes, it occurs to Castiel just how much he hates winter.

By the time he finishes his breakfast of apples and oatmeal, he’s staring at the keys on his counter and internally debating whether or not it’d be worth it to go and check out the property. He looks over to Meg, curled up on the couch in front of the fire, then back to the keys.

It can’t be that bad outside.

**  
  
**

He has never been more incredibly wrong in his entire life. And he’s been pretty wrong about _quite_ a few things. His brilliant plan had included walking, because the car still makes him uncomfortable, and he isn’t sure he can feel his legs anymore. He reaches the small white building and unlocks it, unfortunately noting that it wasn’t much warmer inside.

He sighs and tugs off his gloves, walking around. The windows are boarded up from the inside, and there’s dust coating every single surface. The paint is scratched and peeling in some places and the panel of wood separating behind the counter from the actual store sticks and squeaks when he lifts it. The back room is better, the shelving units relatively new and only coated with dust.

He looks around, and decides to get coffee.

Luckily for him, the diner right next door is open, and wonderfully, _blissfully_ warm.

“Ay, welcome to Benny’s, what can I getcha?”

“Coffee, please.” Castiel answers, taking a seat at the counter as the burly, strangely welcoming man in front of him picks up a cup and eyes him.

“Black?” he’s got a thick southern accent, sounding like he belongs somewhere in Louisiana. Castiel bets Louisiana is warm.

“Yes, thank you.” Castiel takes in his surroundings while the man makes his coffee, noting an orchid sitting further down the counter and several booths against the wall, tables interspersed where they can fit. It’s very homey, he notices, several pictures on the walls of the man posing with different people. He recognizes Sam in one of the photos, dressed in a police uniform and mock-arresting the smiling owner.

“Here you are,” he interrupts, setting a steaming hot mug down in front of him, “one black coffee.” He slides the sugar over with a wink. He watches Castiel blow on it and take a sip, sighing in satisfaction as he warms up from the inside, pulling his hood down and unwrapping his scarf. The man’s still watching as Castiel looks up.

“You’re not from around here, are you?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I just moved here yesterday.”

“Ah.” he pushes back from the counter. “You’re that Castiel guy, right?”

He nods and the man extends his hand. “‘Name’s Benny. S’nice to meet ya, Castiel. People’ve been talking about you for a while.”

Castiel takes it and shakes. “So I’ve heard. It’s a very nice place you have here,” he mentions. “I like the paint.”

Benny snorts. “The paint.”

“Yes.” Castiel continues, gesturing to a wall covered in a color that could only be described as burnt orange. “It’s very ...warm. Inviting.”

Benny laughs. “Thanks, I guess. My wife picked it out. Before she left.”

“Oh.” Castiel doesn’t quite know what to say to that and wraps both hands around his mug. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. “S’all right. People change.” He picks up a rag and starts wiping down the area in front of him. Castiel sits awkwardly, not used to being thrust into emotionally charged conversations.

His gaze takes him back to the orchid, and he clears his throat. “Where did you get that orchid? I’ve never seen that particular shade of red before.”

He stops wiping and looks over to the plant, looking back at Castiel with something odd in his eye. He pauses, then leans forward and stares at Castiel, who stares back, confused. He still can’t read Benny, and his people skills are anything but refined.

“You believe in magic?” he murmurs like it’s a secret, and something twists inside Castiel.

“I suppose.” he responds, hands tightening around his mug.

Benny looks over at the plant again and seems to be contemplating something. He suddenly pulls back. “Naw, forget it. It’s crazy.” He shakes his head.

“Tell me. I won’t judge,” Castiel presses, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Benny huffs out a laugh, scrubbing a hand over his mouth. “Alright. See, there’s this patch of rosemary by my house, right near the edge of the woods that I pick from ‘n use, right? So one day I was out there, lookin’ for it ‘cause we were running low, and I got a bit lost. I stumbled around in the woods for a bit, but then I—” he pauses in his story, eyes far away like he’s seeing something other than the beige restaurant counters. “I came up on this clearing, and smack right in the middle was that orchid. It was just like the one I was thinking about gettin’ for Andrea, so I picked it, and took it home, and that was that. It’s a hardy one too, never withered just ‘cause I forgot to water it.”

Castiel frowns. “But orchids are very temperamental to both water and temperature—”

“Trust me brother, I know.” he says. “Never found that clearing again, either.”

“Never?”

Benny shakes his head. “Uh-uh. Never knew why there was an orchid there or how I found it.” He pauses again. “Strange, huh?”

Castiel looks down at his now-lukewarm coffee, contemplating Benny’s story. “Very.”

Benny snorts, pulling back. “‘Rest of the town thinks it’s bull, even if half of ‘em got stories of their own.”

There’s a blast of cool air and they both look up to see a woman in a sheriff’s coat walking to the counter, rubbing her hands together. “Got a cup for me, Benny?” she asks.

“Always got a cup for you, Jody.” he answers, smiling.

“Who’s the new guy?” she leans against the counter, looking over at him. “You the Castiel we’ve been hearing about?”

Castiel nods as Benny pours her a cup of coffee. “We were just talkin’ about my orchid.”

“That old thing again?" she scoffs. "Just admit you bought it from the florist two towns over. Nobody just walks into the forest and picks an orchid out of the ground in some magical clearing, Benny.”

Benny shrugs. “Hey, whatever you wanna believe.”

Jody shakes her head and looks over at Castiel, taking a sip of her coffee. “You’re not causing any trouble, are you?” she asks, and he shakes his head.

He watches them banter a bit before she leaves, and Castiel decides it’s time to go too, explaining about the shop next door and how he needs to walk back home to get what he needs, but Benny stops him and offers to let him use his broom and rags.

“Just remember to give ‘em back,” Benny says, and Castiel thanks him before stepping outside. It’s just as cold as before, but there’s a different sort of warmth in his chest now.

He leaves the door to the shop open but it doesn’t bother him as much, keeping himself warm through sweeping and dusting. When he thinks he can manage it, he uses his magic to fix things he’d usually have to do by hand, like a cracked window or the god-forsaken squeaky sticking divider.

He’s nearly finished cleaning everything by the time his stomach starts growling, and he returns the things Benny loaned him, asking about the food he makes. As it turns out, Benny makes a mean jambalaya, and they eat in relative silence, as Castiel was not previously aware that meat and spices could be mixed together to make something so beautifully delicious. He says as much to Benny, who blushes at his words.

By the time it gets dark mostly everything is clean, save for the walls, which he has decided are in need of new paint. Getting home, he wants nothing more than to eat dinner and take a bath, but he’s quickly reminded that the bathroom still needs fixing, and by the time his magic has done it’s work he’s swaying in place as he watches the tub fill with hot water, steam rolling off in waves.

He’s out before his head even hits the pillow.

 ****  
  
****

The next day is warmer, late February bleeding into March and bringing with it better weather. It’s still cold enough for a sweater, but Castiel revels in the fact that he only has to wear one pair of socks today. His good mood spurs him to finish unpacking completely, using the stupid complicated hand waves and wrist flicks his mother taught him just for fun, until an exaggerated flick sends a pair of his briefs sailing across the room and smacking into the window, an owl perched on the bushes flapping away in alarm.

That’s odd. He hadn’t noticed the owl.

He sighs and walks over, pulling his underwear from the window and dropping it in the dresser. He leaves a simple charm on the boxes of clothes, and they lift gently from the box, folding in midair before placing themselves neatly in the dresser. It’s not as fast, but he’s less likely to embarrass himself, even if there’s no one around to see.

Satisfied that the clothes are taken care of, Castiel trods to the kitchen, filling the kettle for tea and pulling out the oatmeal again. This time, he filled the bowl with oats, but coated the top in cinnamon and brown sugar, shaking it up so it’d spread evenly. He hums to himself waiting for the kettle to boil, busying himself with starting a small fire.

The phone rings with a piercing shrill and he jumps, nearly burning himself with the matches. He pads over and answers.

“Castiel?”

“Rufus?” he asks, confused as to why he’s calling.

“When the fuck are you gonna pick up Anna’s stuff?” he barks, and Castiel can hear the shuffling of papers in the background.

“Well?” he says when Castiel doesn’t answer.

“I, ah, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” This is stated, and he can hear a pen clicking. Castiel feels his heart beating against his ribs. He isn’t ready to bring Anna’s things back here. He’s just gotten over seeing—no, hallucinating her… ghost. Or whatever it was.

“Alright Castiel, I’m gonna give you an ultimatum. If you don’t clear that storage locker out within the month, you’re gonna shoulder the bill. And when I say you’re gonna shoulder the bill, I mean you’re gonna reimburse me for the past year and a half everything’s been sittin’ there. Am I clear?”

“Yes.”

“Good. You’ve got until the first of April.” There’s a click on the end of the line and the call ends, and Castiel jumps again as the kettle suddenly goes off behind him. His hands shake slightly as he pours the hot water for his tea and oatmeal, and he stares into space as he eats.

He’s not sure he could handle all of her things here right now. He’s still adjusting. Hell, he’s barely unpacked. The last he needs is his dead sister’s possessions sitting around his home as he tries to settle in. Another week or two, he tells himself. Enough time to adjust—to prepare.

He finishes his breakfast and turns around in the kitchen, counting three boxes that need to be unpacked. He starts with his seeds, pulling out an old wooden box he’d made himself, carvings of flowers on the sides. There are two others and what looks like a small staggered shelf, and he sets them up in the kitchen, under the window. First is the box labeled herbs, then flowers, then vegetables. He orders the seeds vertically and alphabetically, cursing at the moving men his mother had payed to help him pack. They’d left everything a mess. He moves on to his planting pots, setting them outside and carefully checking each and every one for cracks, then he’s at his jars. They go on the shelf next to the desk in the front room, pushed up against the right wall, and Castiel nearly trips on the three layered rugs on the floor, kicking them in annoyance. They’d placed themselves terribly.

The jars are also set in alphabetical order, from agrimony to mandrake all the way to yarrow. They only reach the third shelf, and he fills the rest of it with his books. On the desk goes a chopping block and a bowl and pestle, and over the window goes two charms hanging from strings.

Next are the crystals. He sets many of them around the front room, a couple placed above the side door and on his desk, one above the front door and several in the bathroom. He has a set for the kitchen and another for his bedroom, and he’s finally, finally finished unpacking by lunch.

He decides to go into town, needing paint for the shop and food for his home. Sadly, the ground is still too hard for tilling or planting, and even with his magic he still has to wait a week or two for it to soften enough for his spells to do any good.

The local grocer's is a couple cold blocks away, and he stocks up on everything he needs, stopping at a small art supply store the next block over for fresh paint. The girl behind the counter has fiery red hair, and says her name is Charlie. She, too, knows exactly who he is.

“You’re Castiel, right? Anna’s cousin?” she says from inside storage after he asks if they sell house paint.

“Uh, yes,” is his reply.

Her head pops out from behind the door, and she has a sympathetic expression on her face that Castiel wishes he could magic out of existence. Well, he probably could, but he’s not _that_ irritated. Yet.

“Sorry.” she drops two large, dusty cans of beige paint on the counter and begins to scan them into the register. “Her death… well, it was a huge loss to all of us. She was an _amazing_ artist. Like, I’m usually more into warrior princesses, but she got me _really_ into tree nymphs.”

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that, and Charlie seems to realize what she’d said and blushes while he pays for his things. He walks home, slower with his purchases bogging him down, and leaves the paint for tomorrow.

Benny's story is still rattling around in his head, and before dinner he decides to take a stroll through the woods. It's not quite sunset yet but he pulls on a hoodie anyways, fingering his pendant before stepping off the back porch and across the yard, pausing at the edge of the forest. He takes a deep breath and feels the soft, pulsating energy of everything around him, the scrape of bark against his hand, the light twitter of birds and the sharp, cold scent of nature surrounding him. He takes a few steps forward, eyes closed, until a rustling to his left makes his eyes snap open in alarm. Two bright eyes stare back at him through the brush, and slowly a doe emerges, sniffing at him before brushing past to reach the berries on the bushes behind him. He stares, watching the doe continue on until she's entirely out of sight, and the sun is nearly set by the time he turns and goes back home.

7:43 am.

It's the time his phone reads when he wakes up the next morning, dreams of a deer with glowing, golden antlers eating berries from his hand fading from his mind as he makes his breakfast. He walks to the shop with the cans of paint, Anna's old brushes tucked away in a bag given to him by Charlie with a shrug and a, "She'd want you to have this."

He sets everything down in the middle of the floor, deciding to stop at Benny's first.

He can hear light conversation when he opens the door, and almost immediately the two men turn and smile, both greeting him with a, "Cas!"

He's momentarily stunned, not used to being greeted so warmly. "Hello Benny, Sam." he nods, moving over to the table where Sam is sitting, looking strangely more imposing in his uniform than he did a couple days ago.

"Coffee?" Benny asks.

"Yes, thank you."

“So, Cas,” Sam begins, “how’ve things been?”

Castiel blinks. “Why do you keep calling me Cas?”

“Ah. Uh, it just… fits you better, I guess. I can stop if you want?” Sam looks into his coffee awkwardly.

“No, no,” Cas frowns, “I like it.”

Sam smiles and Benny sets Castiel’s coffee in front of him.

“And to answer your previous question, Sam, things have been… good.”

Sam laughs. “Good.” His eyes slide to the left and Cas can feel the cold air from outside brush past him, watching as Sam’s eyes light up and his smile gets bigger. “You here to bug me some more?” he teases, and Castiel looks back to see another police officer standing near the door, hand on her hip. She has beautiful golden blonde hair, curling slightly and hanging past her shoulders, a mole in between arched eyebrows.

“No, I’m here because there’s nothing to do.” She sighs, plopping down into a chair next to Castiel, throwing her police cap onto the table. “I drove around for a while but Frank’s been pretty quiet and everyone else is fine. No one told me being a police officer would be so boring.”

Sam snorts into his coffee. She looks over and smiles at Castiel, seemingly just noticing him.

“Hey, you’re Castiel, right? I’m Jessica.” She sticks out her hand and Cas takes it, a small smile forming. He likes this girl.

He watches her and Sam bicker playfully with each other, their light mood somehow infectious, and Cas finds himself laughing quietly with them. Benny joins in with the ease of a well-known friend, and Castiel silently realizes it feels like some invisible thing has been lifted from his chest. He’s never had this; it’s always been strict parents or strict social workers or strict neighbors and landlords. He’s never really had this ease he’s sitting in right now, swept up in everyone else’s good moods and simply enjoying their conversation, finishing his coffee.

Eventually, Jessica stands up, saying something about paperwork and Jody and someone named Bobby.

“Yeah, sure,” Sam sighs, drinking the last dregs of his coffee. “Your hair’s supposed to be up in a bun, by the way.” He gestures to Jess’ hair.

“So’s yours, Sam!” Benny calls from behind the counter. Jessica giggles and shoves at Sam, taking a hair tie from his wrist and doing her hair up while Sam does the same. They both slide on their caps and wave goodbye, shoving at each other all the way to the patrol car. Cas decides it’s time to go too, paying for the coffee and letting Benny talk him into buying a beignet or four before walking back over to the shop.   

He tapes over the windows, doorknobs, counter tops, basically anything sticking out that could have paint dripped over it. The floor gets covered too, because he’s learned from the first time he attempted to charm the brushes to paint his room blue for him that they’re really not the most precise when it comes to keeping the paint on the walls.

He dips the first, biggest rolling brush into the paint and whispers the spell, palm shimmering and tingling slightly before he presses the brush to the wall. It begins to roll itself up and down, painting evenly and reaching the top where Castiel would have needed a ladder to reach. He’d removed all the chipping and peeling pieces of old paint earlier, so that everything was smooth and clean.

He starts a few other smaller brushes and sits on the floor, switching between watching the brushes and watching the window. He really doesn’t want to be found out because he was too lazy to actually paint the place himself.

When lunch rolls around he’s got most of the walls done, and he’s careful not to step in any of the splatters of paint on the ground from when the brushes dipped in the pan on the ground and whizzed, fairly over-eagerly, back to the wall.

Benny’s got a plate of gumbo for him today, and for the first time since he’s been coming in for lunch, Castiel isn’t the only one in the diner. Jody, and another, gruffer looking, bearded man are sitting in a booth in a corner talking in hushed tones, both looking rather stressed.

“Don’t mind them,” Benny leans forward conspiratorially after putting Cas’ plate down in front of him. “They butt heads all the time. S’usually something about their way of runnin’ the station. Jody’s a little strict and Bobby likes to play favorites. Can’t really blame either of them.”

Castiel nods, already stuffing his mouth with Benny’s cooking. He watches them out of the corner of his eye for a while, one of them eventually breaking the tension at the table by laughing and sitting back, and Cas breathes a sigh of relief. He feels lighter, somehow, when they seem to be joking around. He’s never really been a fan of conflict, even if it doesn’t directly involve him. He shakes his head at himself. He’s too used to things escalating to the point of fight-or-flight.

The last thing needing painting is the front door, which he does by hand. He’s done by sunset and he leaves the door and windows cracked slightly, knowing things’ll dry quicker if he does.

He listens to the radio as he makes himself dinner, weather and news reports interspersed between the music. He’s pleased to hear things will continue to warm up as the days slowly grow longer; he might even be able to till the ground tomorrow, way ahead of schedule.

The shop smells strongly of paint and things are still wet in places when he checks the next morning, and he decides to prop the door open for the rest of the day, strolling back home, the sun finally breaking through the late winter-early spring gloom. It’s enough to make him pull off his coat, skipping the cottage and heading straight into the woods. It seems different now, with the sun nearly directly overhead. More welcoming, somehow.

He makes sure to keep in a straight line, coming across a patch of rosemary and frowning at it. He remembers Benny talking about a patch of rosemary in the woods, but rosemary shouldn’t be able to grow in these woods. It’s too cold during the winter for it to survive, and yet, it’s thriving.

He continues on, mind still caught on the rosemary’s inexplicable existence. He doesn’t find much else, so he turns back, gathering up a few bunches of the plant to dry at home. Even if it’s plausibly some sort of mutant plant, it still smells amazing. He starts up eggs and potatoes when he gets back, hanging up string across the archway of the kitchen in the living room, reasoning that with the fire going, things would dry much faster. He ties up the bundle of rosemary at the base and uses the extra thread to tie it to the string, and it hangs to the side. It almost looks like home, he muses.

The sun’s still out, and he decides it’s time to begin planting. He grabs a spade from the shed and heads to the back yard, not nearly as covered in overgrown grass as the rest of the place is. The earth is still cold and hard and not the easiest to till, even with his magic, so he takes breaks to catch his breath. It’s in the middle of one of these breaks when he sees rustling at the edge of the trees, but nothing comes out. Castiel tries to ignore it, standing to begin tilling again, but he can’t shake the feeling of being watched.

He finishes planting before sundown and buries spell jars in the four corners of the garden so things grow faster, adding runes so he doesn’t have to bother with pests.

That night he dreams of an ebony snake emerging from the woods, spitting venom over the soil and killing everything within reach. He wakes up shaking.

The next few days are mostly much of the same, scouring the town for tables to put in the shop. He takes walks through the forest, too. He’s still convinced there could be something there, and even though he sees a flash of red hair through the branches of trees that makes him freeze in place and quickly walk back in the other direction, it’s still not enough to make him stop.

There’s a day where he goes deeper than he ever has, and comes across a moss-covered wooden plank. It strikes him as odd, a plank of wood out in the middle of nowhere, but still he picks it up, shaking off the dirt and bugs. It’s just the right size for a sign, Castiel decides, and he turns to go home when he sees her.

It’s just out of the corner of his eye, but there’s no mistaking the limp red hair or her dead white stare. She’s gone when he turns to look, but he’s still having trouble taking in air and he stumbles as he tries to walk back. He sees her again just before the trees break and he gasps, tripping backwards and landing against a tree with a pained gasp. She only stands there, and disappears when he blinks.

He avoids the woods for a couple days after that, instead focusing on carving the now-mossless plank of wood into a sign for the shop and taking walks around town, still too uncomfortable to use the car. It’s how he ends up, on a Sunday afternoon, finding a yard sale behind a beat up old bar named The Roadhouse. There’s a few people milling about and he approaches, thinking about looking for furniture or other things.

There are a couple tables laid out with tags fluttering in the slight breeze, and he can’t help but wonder what a biker bar is doing in the middle of… Fox Hollow. He observes the objects for sale; glasses, shot glasses, a complete set of knives, ceramic sculptures, old clothes, a couple framed posters and vinyl records and other various odd trinkets. There’s a shelf set leaned up against the building near a tough looking woman in a fold out chair, and he hesitantly walks over to check the prices. Since his mother is incapable of showing affection like a normal human being, she sends him monthly checks, but even those have their limits.

“I haven’t seen you around before. You new here?” comes a voice, and Castiel turns to see the woman staring at him critically.

“Yes.” he replies. “I’m—”

“Novak, right? Castiel Novak?” she asks, standing and extending her hand when he nods. “I’m Ellen. Welcome to town.”

“Thank you.” he says, shaking her hand. “It’s… a very nice town.”

She snorts. “Yeah, it can be.”

Cas doesn’t know what to say to that, so he simply nods. He feels awkward leaving the conversation there though, so he asks the next thing that comes to mind. “Why are you having a yard sale?”

Ellen sighs and looks down at the gravel. “Business isn’t all that great. I mean, we got our regulars, but ever since they built the school things have been goin’ downhill.” She raises her voice, looking over her shoulder. “And since Ash here got himself kicked out of MIT, we’ve had to make some sacrifices."

Ash turns to them at her words, seemingly just noticing their presence. “Ah hell, Ellen, you’re still happy to see me.”

“Happy we got more people to clean the bar is more like it.” she scoffs.

Ash simply shrugs, taking a swig of his beer and regarding Castiel critically. He seems to figure something out, because he chokes and just barely manages to swallow the liquid in his mouth. “You’re that Castiel dude, right? The name’s Ash.” he sniffs and shrugs casually. “Most people call me Dr. Badass. I’m kinda a genius. ”

Ellen snorts. “Careful boy, or you’re gonna be sleeping on the pool table again.”

Ash seems to square himself up, shoulders rolling and mouth opening for some sort of comeback that would no doubt put him on the pool table like Ellen had threatened, but he’s interrupted by someone shouting—

“Ellen! Castiel!” Cas turns to see Jessica, a couple of glasses under her arm, jogging over to greet them.

“Hello, Jessica,” he greets, the others doing the same. She smiles widely and bumps into Castiel in a way he believes is intentional.

“You remember me!”

“Of course. Was I not supposed to?” he frowns. He’d only seen her a couple days ago.

“No, no, I was just—nevermind. How are you? Are things going alright?” Someone waves Ash over, and the crunch of gravel as he walks away is slightly distracting as he picks his answer.

“Things are good. I have started my garden and the weather is improving.” He nods.

“No electronic problems then?” Ellen asks, and he frowns again.

“No. Things have been fine.” He pauses. “Why?”

Ellen shrugs. “Week before the full moon everything not runnin’ on gas goes on the fritz. Lights flickerin’, phones not working, TV’s switching channels by themselves. That kinda thing.”

“Nobody knows why either.” Jessica chimes in. “It’s just one of this town’s quirks, I guess.” Ellen hums beside her.

“Sam not with you?” she asks.

Jessica shakes her head, “He decided to stay behind and help Claire out with homework. She’s really having a tough time this year.”

“Well ain’t that kind of him.” Ellen smiles. She huffs a sigh, sparing a glance at the yard sale. “Bela’s here. Excuse me you two, I gotta go see if any of our crap is up to her standards.” She treads away, leaving just Cas and Jess.

Jessica clears her throat after a beat, startling Castiel out of his thoughts. “Um, hey, Cas, I actually… have something for you. From Anna.”

That gets his attention. He looks up at her sharply, noticing that there’s really nothing hiding, or that could be hiding, in the light jacket and jeans she’s wearing. He’s sure it can’t be the drinking glasses tucked under her arm, and his face is twisting into another frown when she speaks up.

“It’s back at home,” she provides. “I didn’t know if I’d see you, so I didn’t bring it with me. Sorry.”

“It’s fine. Just—just let me purchase something and we’ll go.” He turns and tries to locate Ellen, mind buzzing with Jessica’s words. What could she possibly have from Anna that she wants to give him?

He finds Ellen next to a brown-haired lady, hair curled much in the same way his great-grandmother used to, surprisingly not wobbling in the gravel despite the height of her heels. He purchases the shelf set and two wooden side-tables, old and worn and full of character. She tells him she’ll keep them there ‘till he comes back with his car, and his like for the woman grows.

Jessica and him walk back to her house, neither saying much. He’s beginning to get a hang of the neighborhoods, recognizing the two empty lots with trees around the edges, the house painted blue with gold and purple trim. They pass a white southern-style home shaded with towering trees just beginning to regrow their leaves, and Jessica seems to live in the twin next door. Both houses seem slightly weathered, but that’s to be expected, Cas supposes.

“Sam lives over there,” she says, pointing to the white house.

“You’re good friends, then?” he asks.

“Yeah.” She nods, unlocking the front door. “Since we were kids, really.” She tosses her bag and keys on a dresser by the front door and heads to the kitchen, calling out for Claire. There’s a slightly muffled “In the kitchen!” and Castiel follows Jessica through the living room, noticing that the walls, ceilings, countertops, are all an almost pristine white, everything very tidy and clean.

There’s a girl Castiel assumes is Claire sitting at the counter, pages of something spread out in front of her.

“Hey, squirt. Where’s Sam?” Jessica asks, setting the glasses she’d been carrying down in the sink.

“He left for work,” Claire mutters, sparing a glare for Jessica before scribbling something onto her page.

“Crap, it’s two already?” Jess exclaims, twirling to check the time on the microwave behind her. “Sorry Cas, I didn’t even notice. I can make you something to eat if you’d like…?”

“I’m fine, thank you Jessica.”

“Okay.” She jerks her head in some sort of gesture. “It’s upstairs.”

She walks out of the kitchen and he follows, up the stairs and to the right. She pulls something off her dresser and hesitantly hands it to him. It’s leather bound and worn, a small pentacle etched into the clasp that keeps it closed.

It’s Anna’s diary.

“She gave it to me a couple days before she—before they… you know…” Jessica doesn’t put words to the elephant in the room, an elephant the whole town seems to be ignoring. “Anyway, after… that, I tried to read it. I thought she might’ve left something for me, but I couldn’t get it open. It’s invincible or something.”

There’s a beat of silence while Castiel studies the journal, as Anna had called it, feeling the spells she’d worked into the leather before handing it off to Jessica. His hands run over the back cover and he can sense the intricacies in the binding spell keeping it closed. He should be able to open it without a problem.

“I felt kind of stupid after,” Jess continues, “because she’d left me with strict instructions to only give it to you when you showed up. I just hope it’s some use.”

Castiel is barely listening, fingers still traveling across the leather. There’s something subtle near the spine, something old that’s left an imprint on the journal. He knows Anna wouldn’t leave this lying around on top of spellbooks. She’d been carrying it since she was twelve. She’d replaced all of the pages on her own when she’d filled them up, and had still considered it her best work.

“Jess, did this come with something else? Like a very old looking book?”

He catches a stuttered breath in the silence before she says, “No. That’s all she gave me.”

If she’s lying, she’s lying well. “Are you sure? It may be important.”

“No,” she snaps. “That’s it.”

He begrudgingly decides to take her word for it, ignoring the weird tingle at the back of his neck and looks up as she sighs and sits at the end of her bed. Her room’s a mess compared to the rest of the house.

“I’m sorry. I’m just stressed.” She’s rubbing her forehead where a crease has appeared, suddenly looking a lot older than she should. “Claire barely talks to me.”

Castiel can tell there’s more than that, but he waits patiently. Jessica sighs and stands up, straightening her bed out and throwing a couple articles of clothing laying on the floor into the hamper.

“Anna did that to me too, if it’s any consolation. I think it’s fairly common for siblings to go through that kind of phase.” Castiel says finally, feeling slightly awkward when the quiet had stretched on too long.

“She’s not—” Jessica cuts off with a huff, running her hand through her hair before turning back to him. “Claire’s not my sibling. She’s my cousin. But, legally, I’m her guardian.”

Castiel doesn’t exactly know what to say besides, “Oh.” and “What happened to her parents?”

Jessica’s jaw twitches like she wants to say something but is holding herself back. Eventually, she lets out a breath of air and says, “Dead. Murdered. Her dad owed some guys something or they wanted something, I don’t know. But they broke into her house one night and there was a—a struggle, her mom was shot and her dad was kidnapped. She said they tried to grab her too, nearly got her, but she ran and they shot at her. They got her in the arm and she managed to run to a neighbor’s, who called the police. Her dad was missing for days.”

He has a feeling there’s no happy ending in this story.

“They found his body in a field, burnt to a crisp. They—they said it seemed like he’d been thrown into a fire face-first, the only reason they could identify him was because his hands had been bound and it saved his fingerprints—” she stops herself, breathing deep breaths. “They were gonna put Claire in the system so I took her in. At first she didn’t talk at all, but she warmed up and I thought I was getting somewhere, but a few weeks ago she just shut down on us again. I don’t know what happened, what to do—” she’s got a hand in her hair and Castiel half-steps towards her, not sure what to do. Should he comfort her? Leave?

“Well, from someone who’s been in it, thank you for keeping her out of the system,” he says instead. “But what about your parents? I’m sure—”

He’s cut off by a bitter snort. “They fucked off a long time ago. We haven’t spoken in years.”

Silence again.

“I’m sorry.” She’s shaking her head, wiping at her face. “You didn’t ask for that horror story.”

“Well, to be truthful, I kind of did. It’s alright.” He shrugs. He feels his stomach gurgle and suddenly remembers his garden and the yard sale. “I should be going though. Thank you for this—” he lifts the journal, “and thank you for sharing with me. You didn’t have to, yet you did. That takes courage.”

She laughs wetly, softly, and steps up to hug him. She steps back and smiles. “Get going. I’ll see you around.”

He nods solemnly and starts down the stairs, the majority of his mind once again occupied on the journal, but another part is swirling around in a disgusted rage. No young girl should be forced to face tragedy that early.

He leaves the journal on the coffee table in front of the fireplace when he gets back home, grabbing a sage smudging stick and a lighter out with him to the car. Anna’s old firebird really is a thing of beauty, but she’s nearly embedded her energy into the car and Cas is sure it’s what’s playing tricks on his mind. He moves the stick all throughout the car, until all he can smell is burning sage, and leaves the rest of it on the dashboard.

Ellen, surprisingly, needs no help when it comes to lifting his purchases into the car. They manage to fit everything in place and then he’s off again, driving slower so nothing is jostled, but the ride is still short. He pulls up and carefully unloads everything into the shop, placing the the tables but leaving the unassembled standing shelves in the middle of the store, deciding to put them up later.

It’s close to sunset when he gets back, and instead of milling about making dinner, he decides to take an apple with him into the forest. He ambles for a while, noticing he’s already begun to create a path. Some of the plant’s he’d trodden on have stopped springing back, and he feels a little sad about it.

The apple gives a satisfying crunch when he bites into it, and he notices the forest looks better today. More alive. Blooming season is nearly here, and he’s glad.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see something shifting in between the trees, but when he turns all he can see is leaves. There’s shifting again to his right, but again when he looks, there’s nothing there. Sighing at his paranoia, he continues on, very much ignoring the prickling feeling of being watched.

He comes to about where he found the board when a buck emerges from the trees, and he stops in his tracks in surprise. To Castiel’s amazement, it steps towards him, stopping a few feet away. It stares at him and Castiel stares back.

Eventually, he holds out his half-eaten apple and the buck takes careful steps towards it, sniffing before taking a bite. Castiel watches with wide eyes as it takes a few more bites, then steps back and turns. He finds himself following it, nearly losing sight of it before he catches up. It seems to glide through the brush, moving with an almost ethereal ease that Castiel can’t match.

They pass a patch of queen anne’s lace and something in the air seems to change. It smells sweeter, somehow, and as they pass more and more of it, the farther the buck seems to get. He hurries, but soon it’s out of sight and he freezes, not sure which way to go. He turns and turns and turns again, but there’s nothing in sight that helps him determine where he is.

He’ll have to perform a spell, then. It’s getting dark, and he needs to see for this spell to work, so he heads for the two trees leaning against one another, forming a sort of archway. There must be a clearing nearby, because the light filtering in that area seems brighter than most of the surrounding forest.

He steps over their roots, and a hummingbird flies past his head.

Castiel whips around and stares at it buzzing in place. What in God’s name is a hummingbird doing here?

He watches it fly around before whizzing past him again, and he gives chase. There are no roots to trip him but he still loses it regardless, stopping just in front of the low-hanging branches of the tree in front of him to catch his breath.

The light seems to be coming from just past the branches, and he brushes them to the side and enters what seems to be a clearing. What stops him in his tracks, is what’s standing in the middle of it.

It’s taller than him. Not by much, but enough that he has to lift his chin to look at it—or, more accurately, him. The man-thing in front of him has antlers and a bare chest leading into a buck’s body, and for a second he thinks the man is wearing it’s skin before he notices two pairs of distinctly deer-like feet, a very buck-like flank, and a tail. He’s got the fur pattern of a baby doe, and as his eyes travel back up to his face, he notes the lightly-tanned and freckled skin. He’s got a soft face and eyes the color of the grass swishing slightly in the early evening breeze. He has strings of small sparkling beads near the color of his skin adorning his upper chest, stretching from shoulder to shoulder and expertly weaved together so it drapes and connects just so to allow movement without displacing it. He’s wearing a circlet made of the same beads, and it somehow stays in place around his antlers, a rich deep brown.

He’s smiling, and Castiel has the feeling he’s amused at his reaction.

“Hi, Castiel.” His voice washes over him, deep and gravely and unnervingly real.

“Who—what—” he’s having a hard time putting thoughts into sentences as the… centaur, stands there, staring at him. Centaurs aren’t real. Right?

“Who I am isn’t important right now. What’s important is that I know who you are, I know about your powers, and I’m not the only one. You need to be careful, Cas.”

He’s using that nickname. His words aren’t entirely sinking in, his mind too busy trying to make sense of what exactly is going on.

“Who are you?” Castiel asks again. He refuses to listen to him until he knows exactly who, and what this creature is.

He opens his mouth, but no words come; all Cas can hear is a twinkling, almost musical whine, dropping and rising before cutting off when his mouth closes.

“Did you understand any of that?”

Castiel cautiously shakes his head.

“That’s because you can’t,” he states. When Castiel doesn’t budge, he sighs, tail flicking. “You can call me Dean.”

“Dean.” The word sounds too… simple, in his mouth. It doesn’t seem to fit the marvelous being in front of him. “What are you?”

That earns him another sigh. “I’m a—well. You could say I’m a guardian of this forest.”

“A guardian,” he repeats. Again, it doesn’t seem to fit. “What can you do?”

This question leaves Dean looking rather smug. He moves forward and Cas startles, unused to seeing a being move the way he does. His eyes are immediately drawn to the ground, where mayflowers spring from the earth where Dean’s hooves had been. He raises his hand and a swarm of hummingbirds appear from seemingly nowhere, buzzing about his face before settling on his antlers like birds on a telephone wire.

Then he grins and drops his arm and they fly away in a hurry, leaving just Dean, not a single hair out of place.

“So you grow flowers and… summon birds?”

Dean’s smile drops. “No, man, I have control over every aspect of the forest. Weather, animals, plants, the friggin’ worms under your feet.”

“Oh. That is… impressive.” Castiel replies. It’s definitely more than what he could do.

Dean’s eyes light up. “Right?” Then he seems to remind himself of something, and the almost childish glee disappears from his face. “Wait, I’m supposed to be telling you—” He cuts himself off with a huff. “Nevermind. It’s getting dark. You should go home.”

Now that it’s mentioned, Castiel realizes the sun has nearly set, sky just barely tinged with pink and purple. It’ll be night time in a few minutes. There’s no chance he’ll be able to find his way back.

“But—”

“Don’t worry,” Dean says, reaching for Castiel’s forehead. “I’ll send you home.”

His fingers touch Cas’ skin, and the world fades to black.

******  
**

****


	3. iii

_iii._

Castiel wakes up the next morning to birds chattering. For a second he doesn’t know where he is, fumbling with the blankets and falling out of bed with a loud _thump._ It’s enough to jar his senses, and he slowly stands, realizing he’s still in the clothes from the night before.

For a second, he wonders if it was all a dream. Or maybe he’s finally cracked, actually gone off the deep end. Finding a centaur named Dean in the middle of the forest in some magical clearing doesn’t exactly sound like something a sane person would experience.

He’s well on his way to convincing himself it was some sort of extremely vivid dream while he stumbles to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face to wake up. His stomach gurgles and Meg strolls in, sitting in front of him and meowing insistently.

“Breakfast for the both of us, then,” he mumbles. But first, he needs to change.

He doesn’t quite notice the bunch of mayflowers on the counter as he retrieves a can of cat food, snapping it open and setting it down. He trails his hands over the vine in the window in greeting and pulls out a bowl and mug for his own breakfast, placing it on the counter.

He finally notices it while reaching for the honey, nearly dropping the jar in surprise. The flowers are still damp with spring dew. It’s visceral proof last night was real.

He scarfs down his breakfast, grabbing the tin watering can near the back door so he can water the garden before going back into the forest in search of Dean. But stepping off the back porch, he realizes everything’s been watered for him. It seems it rained the night before, and the soil’s wet, a the dark brown contrasting against the bright green sprouts pushing through the dirt.

Realizing everything's taken care of, he drops the can next to the door and hurries into the forest, looking around for a buck, a doe, a hummingbird, anything that might lead him back to that clearing. Not wanting to stray from his worn path, he passes the odd bush of rosemary, the familiar fallen, rotting trunk, up to where he’d found the board and met the buck, and stops. There are birds chirping and twittering and hopping around in trees, rustling the branches and making Cas turn hopefully more than once.

He eventually presses on when nothing shows, but soon turns and goes back the way he came. Feeling slightly disgruntled, he kicks a couple rocks in his path, one skittering away through the brush and hitting something solid. He assumes it’s a tree until he hears something moving around and sees a tall, solid figure through the leaves, immediately going after it before it disappears. He crashes through the underbrush, but when he gets to where the figure should have been, there’s nothing in sight.

Frustrated again, he walks home, mind still abuzz with last night’s encounter. Maybe Dean just doesn’t want Cas to find him right now. He’d said he had control over every aspect of the forest, including the animals. It’s reasonable to believe he simply _allowed_ Cas to find him last night.

His status of ‘guardian’ doesn’t sit right with him, though. Like Dean’s name, the simple title doesn’t seem to encompass all that he is and does.

He gets home and goes straight to his bookshelf, looking for the one he wants and letting out a small, “Aha!” when he finds it. If Dean really is the guardian he says he is, he should at least be mentioned somewhere.

Even after an hour or two reading through _Gods, Goddesses, and Guardians: A Complete Listing_ , all he can find that sound like Dean are… gods. Cernunnos, Pan, and Green Man are as close as he could come to identifying Dean, but even _they_ don’t seem to fit. He carefully looks through the names of offspring, demigods, the many children sired by some of the more… _active_ gods, but he’s nowhere to be found.

He closes the tome with a huff of frustration. His phone would be a better help, seeing as he doesn’t own a computer. But even that proves difficult, the browser crashing several times before his entire phone shuts off, needing to be manually rebooted before he remembers what Ellen had said about technology and the moon cycle. A quick check to the calendar tells him tonight’s the full moon, so he tosses the useless piece of technology to the side.

Eventually, he goes with his instincts, pulling out a wooden bowl and filling it with milk and honey as an offering, leaving it on his back porch and lighting a green candle behind it as a way to catch the guardian’s attention—or god, whatever he was.

That night he catches a buck drinking from the bowl, candle halfway burnt down and illuminating it’s antlers. He doesn’t chase it. If Dean doesn’t want him finding him, then Castiel won’t press.

He finishes the shop’s sign too, outlining the wooden board in white and filling in the name he’d carved— _Peculiari Herba_ —with the same. He carves out the holes needed for hanging and deems it finished, going to bed not long after.

Later the next day, Sam and Jess find him on a wobbly stepladder he’d pulled from the shed, attempting to hang his sign from the planter boxes jutting out over the storefront with twine.

“You need some help, sir?” he hears Jess call out, and he swears she sounds like she’s teasing.

“I don’t require assistance—” the stepladder shakes and he takes a moment to make sure it’s steady before returning to the task at hand. “I don’t require any assistance, thank you.”

He hears Sam snort. “Sure you don’t. That’s not gonna hold up over the winter, Cas.”

“I bet you it’ll break before fall.” Jess adds.

He sighs heavily before turning to the two nearly beneath him. “Then what, exactly, do you suggest?”

“I’ve got some chain left over from when Bones was a puppy. It’s pretty small, and I promise it’ll last longer than _that_.” Sam offers, and Castiel is surprised by how quickly he’s found a solution.

“Well… then yes, I suppose that could work.”

“Yeah?” Sam smiles, and Cas can feel his face twitch in response. “I’ll go get it then.”

He’s back by the time Castiel finally pulls the twine from the sign—pulling the knots free had been harder than he’d expected. Sam takes his place on the ladder, pulling the chain, a couple large screws, and a toolbox up with him.

After a couple moments of just staring at him fix the sign in place, Jessica nudges Cas.

“So, uh, you never said, what brought you to Fox Hollow? Especially after, well, y’know.” Again, there’s no mention to the elephant that’s been following him around like a shadow since he first arrived.

“Location, mostly,” he sighs, grabbing ahold of the stepladder when it gives a particularly violent wobble. “Besides my times with Joshua, I’ve never lived among so much raw nature, even when I was a child. Previously, I was living in a very small apartment in the city, so this was an opportunity I was not going to give up, even with the… history.”

“Your parents never took you on nature walks or anything?” Jess sounds scandalized, also reaching out and grabbing ahold of the ladder.

Castiel gives a bitter smile. “My father left when I was very young, and my mother was… strict, to say the least. After he left she’d go through moods that were…” he’s at a loss for words. “Well, they were what they were. Eventually someone must have called the state, because one day some social workers came by and took me to an office, then dropped me off at a group home, which became my home for over a year. It was where I met Anna.”

“Wow. So Anna’s your…?” Jess trailed off, brows furrowed.

“Adoptive cousin, but more of a sister than anything. I’m related—” there’s a hitch in his breath when he realizes his mistake,”—I was related to Joshua by blood. He came to visit me often at the group home, and I introduced him to Anna since we had become friends. When my mother regained custody of me, Joshua adopted Anna and took her home with him, so of course, we were both elated. I spent many summers with them, growing up.”

“Then how come I never saw you around?” she asks, frowning. “I’m pretty sure I’d remember a boy like you.”

“Most of the time, Joshua kept us on his land.” Castiel explains. “He said he liked knowing where we were.”

There’s a clang of something hitting the stepladder and it judders as Sam takes the two steps back to the ground. “Sign’s hung,” he states, grabbing his tools.

Cas looks up; Sam was right, the chain looks much more sturdy than the twine he still has in his hand.

“Thank you, Sam.” he says sincerely. But there’s something pressing on his mind, and he hesitates before voicing it. “This may seem strange, but have you ever seen anything… odd in the forest before, Jessica?” he asks, turning back to her.

“Odd? No,” she answers quickly.

“Oh.” He pauses. “Are you sure? I had a dream—”

“I’m pretty sure, Cas,” she replies curtly, cutting him off.

There’s a beat of silence, then Sam steps up and puts a hand her shoulder, and Jess seems to relax instantly. “Sorry. I’m just stressed… about Claire, and the house. I didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s alright. I understand.” He moves to break down the stepladder.

He can hear Sam sooth her, “Claire just has bad days like the rest of us, Jess. It’ll pass.”

They wait for him to break down the ladder and stow it inside before saying anything else.

“So how about beignets?” Sam asks, attempting to break the tense mood. “Benny’s are the best.”

They agree and soon enough Sam’s dropping off a box of beignets, Cas having opted to stay at his shop to assemble the shelves with Sam’s tools. He feels a little self conscious with the two of them watching him, but he gets them put together and placed.

They finish off the beignets around the time Sam and Jess are called back to the station, and they part ways with friendly “See you”’s. He heads back home and makes himself a proper lunch, checking up on the garden afterwards.

Quite a bit of it is growing fast and well, and he picks a couple flowers before placing a preservation spell on them and leaving them in a jar. He’s also been potting bits of succulents, growing quickly in the sun under the kitchen window. He’s been trimming the vine he’s now named Steve; it’s begun to crawl down the yellow-tiled wall instead of the ceiling like Castiel wanted.

Looking out the window again, he notices the offering’s gone.

The next morning there’s a spotted owl sitting on Anna’s—on his car when he leaves that morning, sweet pea blossoms clutched in it’s beak. It’s head is turned towards the trees and Castiel simply stares, stuck in place. The owl’s head turns slowly, eyes widening almost comically and the flowers are dropped to the ground as soon as it sees him, flapping away in a hurry.

He watches on in disbelief, quietly walking over and picking up the delicate blossoms after it’s gone. The flowers are twirled between his fingers as he considers them; he can’t help but feel like they have some sort of special meaning. But that’s silly, of course, it was just an owl. Still, he tucks it in his sweater, and continues on.

There’s a shop he’d passed earlier on in the month and that’s where he’s headed—from what he remembers, it’s some sort of thrift store for old or special items. It turns out to be half a block from the Roadhouse, and he’s suddenly got a good idea of the owner.

There’s a chime of a bell when he enters the store, the inside a paneled cherry stained maple. There are shelves and displays everywhere, and through the well-organized mass of _stuff_ he can hear the clacking of a keyboard. It pauses for a moment as he slowly begins to walk around, resuming as he picks up a small ceramic statue of a cherub.

He passes things by, finally finding the section of cups and pots and objects with holes in the middle that will hold a plant. He’s studying an old milkshake glass when the bell chimes again and a voice calls out, “I want my shit back, Bela.”

“I took nothing, Jo. I was more than generous with my prices,” another accented voice calls out from the front of the store. There’s the clomping of boots as he tucks the retro glass under his arm and picks up a hollow red ceramic heel; the voices are a bit more muffled now but the tone still sounds tense.

He tucks the shoe under his arm and wishes he had a basket.

He’s picked up his fourth coke glass by the time the thumping of boots reaches his isle. He looks over to see a blonde girl looking at items, an intricately carved knife twirling in her fingers. She picks up an antique coke bottle and flips it for the price, angrily putting it back down and moving on to the next shelf.

He carefully places the glass back in it’s spot, slightly wary of the girl. She passes by him and does a double take, laughing a bit at the mess of items cradled in his arms.

“Dude, you need some help with that?” she asks, a bright smile lighting up her face.

“I—” he glances at the blade in her hand and she looks down at it, shaking her head and tucking it into her belt, the smile still there but looking slightly amused. “I would like that, thank you.”

She grabs a few things from him so that his arm is no longer cramping, and he thanks her again.

She just shakes her head again and assures him it’s fine. “You got a name, guy?”

“Castiel—”

Her face clears. “Novak, right? Castiel Novak?”

He nods wearily and she laughs. “A lot of people are still talking about you, sorry. What are you buying all this crap for, anyways?” She looks down at the objects in both of their arms.

“They’re pots. For succulent plants.” he answers.

“Really? That’s pretty cool.”

He smiles at her. She follows him about the store, commenting on things or suggesting items, and his total ends up being more than he’d anticipated. The woman at the wooden-paneled counter is the same one from the yard sale as he’d expected, hair curled differently today but still obviously not in a style from this era. She’s got a british accent that doesn’t quite fit in, handing him mismatching woven sacks with handles to bag his purchases as Jo steps to the counter and places down the small cherub Cas had seen when he’d first walked in.

“A lovely choice.” She smiles at Jo in a way that grates on Castiel’s nerves.

“Now gimme my sheath,” Jo nearly growls, but Bela tuts, carefully picking up the statue and pulling wrapping paper and a small paper bag from under the counter, taking her time wrapping it up and placing it in the bag as Castiel arranges everything so nothing will be in danger of breaking. Jo’d invited him over to the Roadhouse and he’d accepted with nothing better to do, and he waits as Bela pulls an intricately carved leather sheath from under the counter and drops it in, finally sliding it over to Jo, who snatches it away and stalks off, Castiel following.

“Pleasure doing business with you!” Bela calls out, and Cas doesn’t catch what Jo mutters, but he knows it isn’t nice.

“Sorry.” she says after pulling the sheath out and covering her knife, strapping it properly to her belt. They’re right across the street from the Roadhouse and Castiel winces at the sound of glass against glass as they cross. “Bela knows it wasn’t for sale, but she bought it from mom anyway. She has a habit of taking things that aren’t hers.”

She storms through the door and into the bar with Cas trailing behind, finding a stool to sit on and carefully setting his bags down. He recognizes Ellen at the bar and what looks like Ash sleeping on the pool table.

“Well,” she chuckles, “look what the cat dragged in.”

“Hello, Ellen.”  

“How’ve you been? That last full moon didn’t give you a whole lot of problems, did it?” she asks, popping open a beer for someone sitting further down the bar. “Our lights wouldn’t stop flickerin,’ we eventually ended up just turning them all off.”

“No, nothing like that,” he answers, looking around the bar a bit. There are tables and chairs placed around the bar, a few people nursing drinks scattered about the place. Ash’s still asleep on the pool table, twitching and snoring. There are scratches in the wood where he’s sitting that look suspiciously like they were made by a knife.

There’s a dull thunk and the low murmur of voices and he looks over to see Jo playing darts with an older man, cash being placed on the table next to them.

“Huh. Weird.”

“What?” He turns back to her, frowning.

“The whole town was affected. Most of ‘em did the same as us, just turned them off. It’s just odd you didn’t experience anything.”

“Oh. Yes, that is odd.” He hesitantly wonders to himself if it has something to do with Dean.

“So, you want anything to drink, hun?” she pulls out a glass just as Ash groans and sits up, sliding off the pool table and sauntering over to the bar.

“Just water, please,” he answers. Ash sits on a stool nearby and adds on, “Same for me, Ellen.”

She snorts, muttering, “Get your own damn water,” but sets a glass in front of him all the same.

There's a loud “ _What?!_ ” from the other side of the room and everyone turns, the same man Jo had been playing darts with was quickly stomping out, Jo ambling easily back to the bar, counting the money she’d won.

“You’re gonna dry out all our customers if you keep winnin’ their drinkin’ money like that, Jo,” Ellen chides, but still accepted her cut of the money, stuffing it in a manila envelope and tucking it back under the bar.

“Oh, you know Clyde’ll be back in a couple hours. He’d probably sell his shooting arm just for another glass of scotch.” Jo snorts, and Ash groans. “Please tell me you’re not hungover, Ash, you only had beer last night.”

“Nah, it’s that damn dream.” he rubs at his eyes, and Cas notices how dark the circles are there. In fact, Ash himself seems darker, like the light isn’t reaching him properly. His shadow stands out in a way Castiel’s doesn’t.

“What dream?” he asks.

Jo sighs loudly, but Ash ignores her. “It’s like, this Ebeneezer Scrooge type guy in a black suit, except shorter and fatter, right? And we’re just standin’ out in the middle of all these dead trees, and he’s tellin’ me to do shit that I really don’t wanna do.”

He stops to down the rest of his water. “Real bad shit. And as soon as I start cussin’ him out he takes these glowing fingers and touches my head with ‘em and I wake up with a headache like I’ve been doin’ tequila shots all night.”

Castiel frowns. He doesn’t have anything to say. There are shadows covering him that shouldn’t be there, and his skin is freezing when he touches it, whispering the spell that will remove his headache. Ash looks at him oddly for a moment when he pulls back, but just signals for another water, which Ellen tells him to get himself. No one really seems to notice the shadows.

There’s the squeak thump swish of the door as someone walks through, everyone turning and smiling as Jessica waves to them all. She sits down next to Cas and accepts a soda from Ellen, and they converse for a few minutes about all the same things she asked him. Jess turns to him as soon as she mentions his lack of activity, and Castiel just shrugs helplessly. He knows just as much as they do.

“So I guess things are going well?” she asks.

“Yes,” he responds. “My garden is growing well, and everyone has been very kind to me. How are you doing?”

“Garth hit a deer,” she sighs. “Again. The report I had to file was awful.”

“I’m sorry,” he answers. He hopes the deer survived.

“Yeah. Anyway. How come you weren’t at the farmer’s market this morning? You seem like the type of guy who’d love it.”

He perks up instantly. “There’s a farmer’s market?”

She laughs around her soda. “Yeah, there’s a farmer’s market every Sunday morning in the park. Me and Sam switch off patrolling.”

“Oh,” he deflates. “I didn’t know. I missed it.”

“Hey,” she giggles, “don’t get down about it, you can always go next week.”

“‘Supposed to be warmer next week, too,” Ellen adds. “Thank god.” She glances behind him and Castiel turns, seeing Ash sitting at a booth with his head in his hands, laptop stretched out in front of him. Despite the light right above his table he’s still drenched in shadows, and an odd shiver crawls up Cas’ spine.

“I should probably go,” he says, stepping down and reaching for his bags.

“Nuh—uh, not until you’ve got some food in your belly,” Ellen snaps, and he sits again. She doesn’t let him leave until he’s eaten everything on his plate, the food surprisingly not that bad for a biker bar.

Stepping outside, he can see how much later in the day it’d become, and carefully walks home, an eye open for shadows darker than the rest.

Getting home, he doesn’t quite notice the owl at first, setting the glasses and ceramics out on the porch for lack of a better place; but it gives a soft hoot and he spots it, perched on one of the branches at the edge of the forest. It hops a bit like it wants to go somewhere before flying off, and Castiel suddenly remembers the sweet pea blossom tucked into his sweater. It’s wilted and limp but the colors have remained, and he steps back inside, pulling a book at random off the shelf and tucking it in the middle, leaving it on his desk so it presses.

He leaves another candle burning outside that night, and wakes up feeling better than he has in years.

* * *

 

It’s a Monday morning but it certainly doesn’t feel like it, the sun already well into the sky, a few fluffy clouds in sight. He spends extra time with his garden, giving each and every plant the individual attention it needs, humming to them or giving them extra water. He fills some of his purchases with the right type of sandy, rocky dirt a succulent needs to thrive, and then sits, and watches.

There’s a breeze in the air, warm winds reminding him April is nearly here. Everything rustles and sways like the willow tree down near Harmony Creek he’d grown when he was young. He decides, after a minute of internal debate, to visit it.

It’s mostly the same as the last time he’d been; there were a few new carvings on the trunk and there are indents on the riverbank from the ambulances that had pulled up to take the bodies away.

He can still remember planting the tree quite vividly.

" _Pat the dirt down firmly but gently, Castiel, don't smack it. Here." He took Castiel's tiny hands in his and placed them on the damp earth, pressing down before lifting his hands and carefully pressing again. "There. See? If you are kind to the young plants, they will grow beautifully for you. This one, here, was taken from it's mother, it's home, not too long ago. It's in a new place, all on its own. It's scared. Wouldn't you be?"_

_Castiel nodded quickly. "I was," he mumbled._

_"That is natural, Castiel." Joshua looked over at a young girl with fiery red hair, tossing pebbles into the river and giggling. "But then you met Anna, yes? And you brought her to me."_

_Castiel nodded again._

_"Well," he said, smiling,"it's like that. If you give what it needs," he ran his fingers over the small, spindly leaves of the willow branch, "if you give it love, and attention, and water and care, it will become wonderfully tall. If you do not, it will wither and sicken and eventually, it will die. Now," he leaned in close like they were sharing a secret, "I am trusting you to take care of her. Can you do that?"_

_Castiel nodded seriously. "Of course, Joshua."_

Standing on the riverbank, he can’t help but feel a sense of… peace. He’s acutely aware of the continued turning of the Earth, life moving on. It was going to happen anyways, at any other time, whether he was prepared or not. The cycle of life, death, and rebirth was always taking place; his protesting would do nothing but hurt himself. It was time to move on.

He turns, willow branches swaying in the breeze, and walks back to get his car.

11:54 am.

The door to the storage locker was heavier than he thought it’d be. Rufus had made it look easy; he stumbles and is very nearly crushed by the whole thing. He huffs in relief when it finally slides into place, then immediately sneezes at the dust he’d kicked up. It’s coating everything.

The first thing he tackles are the boxes. They’re stacked everywhere, in almost every shape and size, one pile almost reaching the ceiling. He’d never really realized how much _stuff_ Anna had. He knew she’d been an artist, but he’d never thought she’d need so many things. The first box he opens is literally filled with granite pebbles, aka: rocks. A real-live box of rocks.

He picks his way through everything with magic after a careful look around, sorting the boxes. There is furniture nestled in the back too, among them an antique chest with a rusted lock and a table covered in a broken-glass mosaic, plus a few dressers. He piles as much as he can carefully into the car, feeling guilty when he leaves the excess near the dumpster but still relieved to return the key.

The extra boxes and dressers go in the front room to be unpacked later, the rest of the furniture being carefully set up in the shop. There’s another vine growing from the ceiling there too, and he can’t figure out where it’s coming from. It hangs to the point where it’s nearly touching his head, creating an all-natural curtain. Castiel decides to name it Clarence.

* * *

 

April arrives a few days later with warmer weather, and Cas tentatively removes the heating spells, stretching out his garden to where there’s only a couple feet from the edge of the forest to the edge of the woods. He continues to leave offerings, apples with honey, and each and every morning it’s gone without a trace.

It was, quite honestly, getting on his nerves; which is why, while pouring himself tea on a Thursday morning, he freaks out as bad as he does when he sees the buck.

Really, it was almost embarrassing. He’d chased it through the woods, not really paying attention to where he’d been going, and now he’s standing in front of the tree-arch, a steaming hot mug of tea burning his fingers. Barefoot.

“Well. Good morning to you too, Dean,” he mumbles, walking through the pathway, brushing aside the branches, and in the middle of the meadow is… a faun.

A faun?

“‘Mornin’, Cas,” he calls out, and it’s most definitely Dean. But instead of the centaur, he’s got goat legs and in place of the antlers are small, curled horns. The beaded chest wrap is still there, but that’s about all that hasn’t changed since the last time he saw him.

“…Good morning, Dean,” he answers, taking a few cautious steps forward. God, the grass in this meadow was soft.

“Ah,” he mumbles, noticing Castiel’s eyes raking over his form. “Yeah, so, the offerings you were leaving usually go to the god Pan, so I thought, maybe if I looked like him, you’d be more comfortable… around me.” He slows down toward the end of that sentence as if saying it out loud made him realize how stupid it sounded.

Castiel is silent. Should he thank him?

“I uh—I left out the hard-on though,” he continues, gesturing to his crotch and frowning slightly when Cas chokes on his first sip of tea. “I mean, Pan’s a cool dude, but that’s a bit much, even for me.”

“Thank you,” he grates out. “But you didn’t need to change. I just chose the offering that seemed to best fit you.”

“Ah.” He pauses awkwardly. “Yeah, so about the offerings, they’re great, really they are, but you don’t have to keep doing that."

“Why?” Castiel frowned. He thought the gods appreciated those sorts of things.

“Well, it’s just, you’re a pretty cool guy and it’s… getting a little weird. For me.”

"Then..." Castiel takes a few steps forward so they're only a few feet apart. He can feel one of the legs of his sweatpants slipping down his leg from where he'd pushed them up when he'd been in his garden. "Would you like something else?"

Dean looks rather unprepared for that question and his mouth hangs open until he shakes his head. “I’m uh—” he clears his throat. “—I’m good. You don’t have to do that.”

There’s a beat where Cas sips at his now moderately-warm tea. Dean looks slightly uncomfortable. It’s a bit of an odd look on him, and it brings him back around to how he doesn’t seem to know _anything_ about Dean.

“Who _are_ you, anyways?” Cas questioned. “You weren’t mentioned anywhere I looked.”

“You looked me up?” Dean asks incredulously, and Castiel just nods with a raised eyebrow.

“Is your name really Dean?” Castiel asks. “Are you truly a guardian? Or is everything you’ve told me a lie?” _Maybe it’s just an extremely vivid hallucination_ , a small voice in the back of his mind whispers. He feels like smacking himself.

“I—” he starts, but huffs in frustration and snaps his mouth closed again, shuffling in place.

“You’re not supposed to tell me, is that it?” he scoffs. When Dean doesn’t give an answer he sighs, turning and walking back to the curtain of vines. If Dean’s not going to tell him anything, then he’s not going to waste his time.

“I’m—technically, I’m a… god.”

This piques Castiel’s interest, and he stops, turns, and steps hesitantly back to Dean.

“So, not a guardian. I really am called Dean in your language, though, so that’s only one strike.”

He smirks like he thinks he’s funny, and it infuriates Cas to a whole new level. He sips his tea so he doesn’t end up throwing it at a god. Christ, his life is messed up.

“What about… cultures? Where are you from?” This time his questions are honestly curious; there’s so much he doesn’t know about Dean that he really, really wants to.

But he shuffles around again and rubs one of his horns, mumbling, “I can’t really tell you.”

“What?”

“I can’t tell you,” he repeats. “Mostly because I don’t—I don’t know,” he adds after a glare from Cas.

“You don’t… know,” Castiel states. “What do you mean? You’re a god.”

“Yeah, well, I wasn’t born with some amazing magical destiny bullshit. I don’t remember much, but I know for sure I was pretty damn mortal before I turned into… this.” He’s rubbing one of his horns again. “I don’t mind it, but I can’t remember much of anything before I became what I am now. I don’t know how old I am, or what my name was before, or any of that crap. I’m just Dean now. And I…” he waves an arm towards the rest of the meadow. “…watch over the forests.”

Castiel almost feels bad for him. He sighs and sits down with much more grace than Castiel expected for a being with goat legs, looking really and truly honest this time.

Castiel understands, to a point; a larger god decides they’re bored of their job and turns a mortal to do what they’re supposed to. It’s not uncommon, exactly. He sits down next to Dean and stretches a bit. The grass really is soft.

“Do you like watching over the forests?” he asks. He’s nearly finished with his tea.

“Yeah,” Dean breathes. This close, Castiel can see each and every one of his freckles, the way his golden brown hair glints in the mid-morning sun. The beads glitter and shine as he shifts, lying on his back with a hand beneath his head. “It’s amazing, Cas,” he continues eagerly. “How everything coexists and works with each other, how they all know what to do without being taught or told. How flowers grow on their own, each cell forming and building on one another until an entire _life_ blossoms from the dirt. The way animals will know to eat the flower or not, how once it dies there are thousands of organisms to break it down and return it to the Earth in some eternal, unending cycle that’s gone on for millions of years without help.”

His hand is more or less stroking the grass, buttercups popping up wherever he touches. Cas can’t help but agree.

“What about you? What do you think about the forests?” Those captivating green eyes are trained on him, and he has to take a second to form an answer.

“I think most plants are… very beautiful things. Very nice, and innocent things. They can calm and comfort in ways human beings can’t. They can represent things you can’t say and they have the ability to inflict emotions onto other people. They’re powerful.” Wonderful, he wants to say.

Dean hums and turns his gaze back to the sky. “Most forests on Earth are old. Very old, older than most gods. Older than man. The things they know— _god_. It’s incredible. They’re amazing.”

He’s got that look again, something like childlike wonder, and more buttercups blossom near his head. Cas hums in agreement and lays back too, and they spend a while simply watching the clouds pass, enjoying the quiet comfort the meadow brings.

Dean hums contentedly and turns onto his stomach, revealing some sort of marking in between his shoulder blades. It’s partly obscured by the beads but it’s a darker color than his skin, almost like a birthmark. He props himself up to get a better look, but all he can see is a sun-like shape before his stomach groans loudly and Dean turns, mere inches from Cas’ face, who tumbles back.

He chuckles. “As much as I like hanging out with you, you should probably go eat, dude.”

Castiel’s stomach rumbles again, and he sighs. “I guess I should.” He wishes there was more time for him to talk. Dean knew so much he didn’t—he wanted learn all he could from him. The meadow seemed to have some sort of calming effect though, and every frantic question he had walking in has somehow disappeared, replaced with peace and quiet. He finds he doesn’t quite mind. “Will you be around later?”

“Uh. Maybe.”

Castiel sits up and frowns at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I mean, I’ve kind of overstayed. I’m supposed to be in Brazil right now, but, y’know…” he trails off, running a hand through the grass. “It’s nice to talk to someone who isn’t some haughty immortal dick for once.”

“Oh.” Cas smiles and picks up his mug and toys with it. “Will you be back soon?”

Dean lets out a long-suffering sigh and tilts his head back to the sun. “About—” he squints, “—twenty days, give or take a few. Maybe a month.” He lets his head roll back to Cas, and they catch each other’s gaze. “Maybe less.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Castiel is the one to break it, getting to his feet. “Well, I’ll see you then, I guess.”

“Yeah.” Dean’s smiling at him, an odd look in his eye. “Get home safe.”

Cas snorts. “It’s a forest, not an alley. I’m quite sure I’ll be fine.” He’s taking slow steps back to the tree-arch that marks the entrance.

“You never know,” is all Dean replies, and Cas huffs in equal parts amusement and frustration, stepping out into the forest.

Then he stops, because he’s standing in front of the mushroom-covered log he passes nearly every day. He turns around quickly, but the archway is gone. The meadow’s not there.

There’s a flash of red in his peripheral vision that makes him freeze in alarm, and it takes him a few seconds to work up the nerve to look behind him.

There’s nothing there.

12:29 pm.

That’s the time his phone reads when he gets back to the cottage, running his fingers over the succulents soaking up the sunlight on the windowsill. His stomach angrily reminds him of his abandoned breakfast, and he starts up his lunch, letting his thoughts wander towards Dean. Again.

Castiel’s not entirely sure he’s to be trusted; there’s too much mystery and too many unanswered questions hanging in the air. But he’s kind, and he’s only ever talked with him, nothing more. He genuinely seemed like he did enjoy talking with Cas, and Castiel felt the same.

And he does really want to see him again. Sighing, he returns to his food, deciding to ask him the rest of his questions when he got back.

Sitting on the couch with Meg to eat his lunch, he’s put face to face with Anna’s journal. The leather cover and weathered pages seem like they’re taunting him with the answers they could hold, and he tells himself he’ll wait until he finishes his meal to open it.

Five minutes later he’s pulling the journal into his lap, unlatching the leather-bound book with ease and flipping open to the first page. It’s got rough edges, like it was torn from some other place in the book and pasted right there in the front.

He forgets his half-eaten lunch, his focus solely on her neatly printed words.

_Dear Castiel,_

_I am so sorry for the way things turned out. I wish things had been different, but at this point in time I really have no other choice._   
_I hope you won’t be hurting too much — you’ve always been too hard on yourself._

_I hope you can forgive my decision. You’ve always told me I always have other other options, even if I can’t see them right away, but this time I know that there is nothing beyond this._

_I’ve thought things through, and I’m preparing the proper measures to make sure you are in a better place when this is over._   
_Please know I am okay with my decision. You are not responsible for anything. Nothing you could have done could have prevented this._

_I’m sorry. I love you._

_Anna xx_

He ends up staring at the page for well over an hour, lunch forgotten.

**  
  
**

The next day doesn’t start out as cheery as the one before. There are dark clouds hovering over the town and it rains intermittently; he stays inside. He’s got the fire going and is sorting through Anna’s boxes of stuff—so far he’s made it through one.

It’s all protective jewelry and necklaces and charm bags. Most of the charm bags still work and the jewelry’s handmade, so he keeps some of her bracelets and rings. He decides to sell the charms.

The next box is smaller, and full of more personal items. There’s a small wooden box he’d made for her filled with seeds, all with a place in spellcasting. The rest he shoves around, looking for something he can’t name until he finds it buried under her favorite books and nail polish. It’s her sketchbook.

He feels wrong, looking through it. He skims, only stopping a few times to admire her work.

About halfway through, though, there’s a change. The drawings are no longer carefully and beautifully crafted; they’re scribbled onto the page with what looks like pencil and crayon. There’s a large, leafless tree and a road, a hand on a gnarled cane, a stoutly man in a black suit, his face scratched out. He flips through a few more, none of them making any sense to him, but something tells him to keep it.

He sets it aside and keeps working.

**  
  
  
**

He’s awoken the next day by loud knocking on his front door, and he groggily pulls himself out of his warm nest of blankets, wrapping a robe around himself.

He opens the door to find Sam standing there, in uniform. He laughs a bit when he sees Cas’ grouchy expression, and his amusement only grows when Castiel growls, “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Early, I know.” Sam chuckles. “But Jess told me you didn’t want to miss the farmer’s market today and asked me to make sure you’d be there.”

His grouchy demeanor dies down. “I’ll be right back.” he grumbles, and walks back inside to get dressed.

He can hear Sam trodding in and looking around. “Your grass really needs mowing,” he calls out.

“I don’t own a lawnmower.” Castiel calls back, stepping fully clothed into the kitchen for something to eat before he goes.

“I do.” Sam responds, smiling when Castiel pauses and turns back to him. “I’ll mow it, don’t worry.”

“I can’t let you do that, Sam.” But he was already shaking his head. “At least let me do something in return.”

“Fine,” he sighs, “you can plant flowers in my yard, or something.”

Assuaged by this agreement, Cas grabs an apple and leaves. The walk there is fairly uneventful, Sam talking with Jessica over the radio about menial things.

Castiel is nearly overwhelmed the moment he steps into the park, booths of fresh produce and flowers and homegrown all-organic products everywhere he looks. The table closest to the entrance is selling organic honey, and he stops for a jar before moving on. There’s a nice lady selling roses, her friend next to her with homemade plates and bowls. Farther down is an older looking man with a table covered in UFO and alien paraphernalia, talking excitedly to anyone who will listen.

Castiel stops at a small booth covered in fresh flowers and buys two small carnations. Most of the flowers look clean and healthy, but there are a few that are wilted and sagging and he takes pity on them. He trails his fingers over the young boy’s sad-looking tulips, smiling as the child watches them perk up, excitedly shaking the arm of his mother.

He moves onto the table of a short, dark woman with curly hair. She radiates a no-shit attitude, and he took an immediate liking to her, wandering over to look through the jewelry she had laid out.

“Oh.” She’s staring at a point just past his shoulder, then her eyes snap to him. “You’ve got a darkness following you.”

Castiel stares at her in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

“Gosh boy, you’re so bright, you are. Real strong. Why you got that shadow hanging onto you?”

She’s staring behind his shoulder again, and Castiel turns to look, but he can’t see anything.

“That shadow’s deep, too. Real deep. Boy, what have you gotten yourself into?”

She was standing up, searching through the bag at her feet, and he could only stare as she pulled out a few charm bags and dropped them on the table, apparently looking for another. He was quite surprised to see another witch. She finally seemed to find what she was looking for, pulling out a small black charm and placing it in the middle of the others, blowing on it before unwrapping to show a various assortment of herbs and what looked like bones. She blew on two others before opening them also, grabbing pinches of things from each and dropping it onto the black cloth.

She finally deemed it good enough and tied it up again, handing it to him, along with a large ring inlaid with snowflake obsidian.

“Take these.” she pushes them towards him when he fails to accept, and he shakes his head.

“I can’t take this without paying you—”

“Forget that. You can pay me back later. I know what you are.” She stares him straight in the eyes, and he could see understanding and… fear? “We gotta protect our own, you know. No one else will. Now take them.”

Reluctantly, he takes the items from her hands, storing the charm in the messenger bag he’d slung over his shoulder before he’d left and slipping the ring onto his finger.

“Thank you.” he tells her sincerely. “I will return the favor, I assure you.”

“Don’t worry about it. Now get. Go on.” She’s waving him away.

But Castiel doesn’t get more than a few feet before he bumps into Jessica, who’s all radiant smiles.

“Cas! You made it!” she says.

“I did. Thank you for sending Sam, I probably would have missed it again if it were not for him.” Castiel responds, looking about again. The farmer’s market ends a bit further down, but he isn’t in any hurry.

Jessica laughs. “You’re welcome. I hope you’re enjoying yourself.”

“I am. It’s a wonderful day. Beautiful weather.” Truly though, he felt better than he had in the past few days.

She giggles again. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice out. Did you try any of that honey at the front? It’s really good.”

But Cas wasn’t hearing her. There was the flick of fiery red hair just behind Jess and he leaned to the side, not thinking, and there, there she was—

Anna.

He feels his stomach knot as she slowly brings her finger to her mouth, an unmistakable _hush_ motion.

Vaguely, he can here Jessica calling his name, but there’s something gripping his muscles keeping him in place, staring at her rotted figure, blue skin and lifeless white eyes.

“ _Cas!_ ” There’s a hand waving in front of his face now, and somewhere in the middle she disappears. He grabs her hand out of the way to make sure she’s really gone, and then he suddenly registers exactly where he is and drops her like she burned him.

“Cas, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” she’s looking at him all concerned and he doesn’t think he can take it.

“I—I just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Oh.” But she still seems concerned, and Castiel needs to go.

“Thank you for inviting me today, Jessica, but—I should be getting home. There are things I need to—tend to.”

“Okay. Get home safe.”

He can feel two sets of eyes on him all the way out of the park.

**  
  
**

Home is nice. Home is warm with a cat. Home has three bottles of whiskey stored in the cabinet.

He’s a little drunk. Okay, maybe more than a little, but it’s just him and Meg here. No scary dead ghoul sisters or old witch ladies to give him judgmental stares for not saving his family when he had the chance.

He knows he’s safe, because he just hung rosemary up on both sides of the front door. Plus, he has Meg. Soft, warm Meg. She makes up for the lack of fire in the fireplace. His hands were shaking too much for that. It’s probably for the best though. He’d be sad if his house burnt down.

Maybe he should go looking for Dean. He’s been in his thoughts lately. Dean, with a god-like face for a god-like deity. He’d really like to run his hands through Dean’s hair right now, but he has to settle for Meg. But that’s okay. He likes Meg. She doesn’t judge him the way other people do. She’s soft and warm, and her purring is making him a little sleepy but that’s okay, he wants to sleep. Sleep is warm.

**  
  
**

He wakes up on the couch with cat fur in his mouth, a pounding headache and the overwhelming need to pee.

Meg had somehow ended up asleep on the side of his face, tail in his mouth, and it feels like he’s coughing up a hairball as he staggers to the bathroom. A short bath will make him feel better.

Luckily for him, his magic takes most of the headache away, although now all he wants to do is sleep for a week. Heading to the kitchen, he spares a glance out the living room window to see what time it is, but he’s stopped by the freshly cut grass. In his yard.

“What the hell?” he murmurs, pulling open the door to find a note stuck to the front of it.

        _Hey Cas,_

_You were dead asleep when I got here, so I went ahead and mowed everything for you. I hope it’s okay._

_Sam_

Well, now he knows what he’s doing today.

He arrives at Sam’s home around noon, gardening tools and budding peonies and daisies in hand. No one’s home, so, like Sam, he gets to work. There was no specified location for him to plant the flowers, so he chooses under the window as a suitable spot.

Halfway through, though, he’s interrupted by the slam of car doors and a, “Cas, I was kidding!”

He looks back, tilting his large sunhat out of his face to see Sam and Jess strolling up to where he’s working. He did most of everything he’s got planted so far without magic, and he’s rather proud of it.

“I wasn’t aware. I just wanted to thank you for mowing my lawn.” He turns back to the peony he’s currently attempting to plant, straightening the slowly tilting flower and piling dirt over the base.

“Yeah, but you don’t have to do that.”

Jessica elbows him in the ribs. “C’mon Sam, I think they look nice. Thanks, Cas.”

“You’re welcome, Jessica,” he responds, looking back at them again to smile at Sam, who’s looking slightly peeved at the two of them ganging up on him.

“Yeah, they’re pretty nice,” he finally concedes, still crossing his arms. “But, really, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Aw, leave him alone.” Jessica comes around to sit on the porch steps, watching Castiel work. “Do they mean anything?”

“Well,” he starts, “peonies generally mean bashfulness. If you go by Greek mythology, it could also be construed to mean perseverance, as there’s a story of a scribe being turned into a peony to protect him from the wrath of his teacher. The daisies mean loyalty. I chose them as they seemed to best represent you, Sam.” He’s pressing into the dirt, making sure the peony is not going to tilt, and when he looks back Sam’s got the oddest expression on his face.

He clears his throat and shifts in place, but Jessica saves him from speaking. “That’s incredible, Cas.”

“Yeah,” Sam adds. “That’s… wow. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble.” Castiel answers, moving on to a clump of daisies.

They bring him iced tea when he’s nearly done, and they drink in general silence, Jessica occasionally interrupting with giggles about the dirt smeared over Castiel’s face. In the end, Sam seems to genuinely enjoy the flowers though, and Cas leaves feeling satisfied with himself.

He checks up on his flowers at home, pleased to find most of them are already near fully grown, reaching up to his hip in some places. There’s an owl in the tree watching him, and he squints at it, fairly sure he’s seen it before.

Cas startles slightly when it flaps up into the air and swoops lowly before pulling up and flying away. The breeze from it’s passing jostles his sunhat off his head, and he glares at the owl before picking it back up and heading inside. It was the oddest thing, but he’d felt like he’d known it.

The succulents look good enough to sell, and he decides on opening the shop up on Wednesday.

(His dreams that night feature a spotted owl with knowing eyes.)

The next day is mostly spent stocking the store, door propped half open to let the spring air in. The vine he’d first noticed is still crawling down the wall, and as much as he’s tried to cut it or pull it out of the way, it’s stayed stuck. There are small buds growing, from what he can see, and he’s actually sort of excited to see what they’ll bloom into.

He’s got flower buckets on the tables pushed against the wall, as many as he could pick stuffed into each, categorized by plant and color. The succulents are on the shelves he set up earlier, and Joshua’s old ceramic owl is on the counter next to him.

He’s slowly going around, setting light preservation charms on the flowers so they don’t wilt. There are small bouquets on his counter and side tables, displaying his work, and he’s rather proud of himself.

The bell he’d placed over the door, (along with a sprig of rosemary and dried heliotrope for protection and prosperity,) jingled, and Cas quickly withdrew his hand in time to see Sam walk in.

“Wow, Cas, it smells great in here.” He’s got a thick manila folder tucked under one arm, and is looking around, impressed.

“Thank you, Sam,” Castiel responds, pretending to inspect the flowers in front of him. “How are the flowers in your yard doing? Are you remembering to water them?”

Sam chuckles. “Mostly. Jess reminds me when I don’t.” There’s a short lull in the conversation and he tucks a hand in his pocket. “So, uh, anyways, I’m here on business.”

“Business?” Castiel repeats, hands wavering. What business would Sam need to attend to here? _Maybe someone saw you using your magic_ , a small part of him whispers, but he pushes it aside. He’s been careful. Right?

“Yeah, town hall stuff. Bobby told me to remind you to get the paperwork for this place filed before you open. Taxes, electricity, that kinda stuff.”

If anything, Cas only gets more frightened. “Taxes?” he says meekly.

Apparently this is amusing to Sam, whose mouth twitches up in a lopsided grin like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll help you fill it out,” Sam finally says, mouth still twitching.

Immense relief floods Cas at his words. He’s always hated paperwork.

“Thank you, Sam. You obviously know more than I.” He hurries back around the counter to remove his apron, and Sam steps up, opening the folder and putting stacks of paper into several organized piles.

“So, first things first, you’ve got a business license, right?”

The look Castiel gives him tells him all he needs to know, and he sighs.

“This is gonna take a while.”

**  
  
**

The grand opening ends up delayed by a couple days, and suddenly Cas is very glad he preserved his flowers. It also means he’s got time to make charm necklaces, and he spends the few days he has carving intricate wooden sigils and anointing them with tinctures and extracts.

By that time, though, buzz has spread throughout town, and he gets quite a few more customers than he was expecting the day his door finally opens.

The first person to walk in is the woman who gave him the ring at the farmer’s market, the ring he’s currently wearing, and she fixes him with an odd stare before walking around.

“You charm these flowers?” she finally asks, and Castiel nods.

“Only to preserve. Nothing more.”

“Hmh. You should try more.” She picks a red carnation from one of the buckets and brings it up to the counter.

“Is this all?” He asks, like a true employee, but she shushes him, leaning over the carnation.

“My name’s Missouri, by the way. I knew you were wonderin’,” she adds, running her fingers lightly over the length of the flower. She huffs a breath, then murmurs, “there.”

“You feel what I put into that?” she asks, sliding the carnation over to him.

He picks it up carefully, feeling around the petals. Then it hits him, sharp and sweet, and his eyes widen.

“This is a love spell,” he gasps. “Why?”

“It ain’t no spell, boy,” Missouri chides him, and he drops the flower.

“It’s stronger than a charm,” he replies. “I’m not going to go drugging my customers with love spells, Ms. Missouri.”

“No, no boy, this ain’t for your customers.” She almost sounds amused. “It’s for you. Good things to come for you, even with that shadow hangin’ over ya.”

The bells jingle, signaling another customer, and he calls out a welcome before leaning closer to keep their conversation more private.

“I thought the charm bag you gave me would get rid of it,” he whispers.

“Mmm, well, seems this one is extra stubborn,” she sighs. “I’d watch my back if I were you.” She slides the flower closer to Castiel and pulls out a five dollar bill. Cas leans back, still frowning, and rings her up, cautiously watching her remove the spell from the flower. He attempts to wrap it up in organic-recycled tissue paper, but she tuts and pushes it away.

“That flower’s for you, Castiel. You keep it.” She sees his eyebrows crinkle in confusion, and adds, “Consider it a gift.”

And she’s gone before he can say anything else, the next customer already stepping up with one of Cas’ succulents in hand.

The red carnation is pushed out of his head with the amount of work his first day brings, selling almost all of his charm necklaces and at least half of his succulents. Quite a few people had ordered custom bouquets too, and he spent much of his night making sure everything was settled and ready for the next day.

The next few days all people want are the “lucky” charm necklaces, and it takes Castiel an embarrassingly long time to realize that it’s just superstition and word of mouth driving people to buy them, not actual knowledge of Castiel’s magical heritage.

Things slow down enough that he’s not so hectic during the days, and he’s able to enjoy the light, calming atmosphere his shop carries. Scents of flowers mixing, light filtering through the windows, enough residual magic that he feels almost at home, so much so that he very much despises closing up before the sun’s down.  

* * *

 

Spring arrives in full force that week, wildflowers blooming in empty lots and the farmer’s market exploding in fresh fruits and vegetables. It’s wonderful; his garden is buzzing with bees and there are rabbits hopping along the edge of the forest.

Sam stops by one day, startling Cas with a request he never thought he’d hear.

“So, Cas,” Sam starts, already looking quite flustered. “I, uh, need you to deliver some flowers for me.”

“Of course,” he responds, “What kind of flowers were you thinking about?”

If anything, Sam’s face gets even more red, and he wipes a hand over his mouth before stuttering out, “I’m not sure.”

“Well, what are they for?”

“Uh… admiration. Love, maybe?” Sam hasn’t stopped shifting in place, and Castiel tries his hardest to keep his teasing smile off his face.

“Well, roses are very good for expressing love, but lighter flowers are better for admiration”. He grabs gardening gloves and steps over to his small section of roses, picking out a couple pink and red roses.

“It looks good, but, uh, I don’t know if I want just roses,” Sam responds, and Castiel nods.

“You’re right. I think I have some white chrysthanthemums somewhere in the back. Or we could do daisies, if you’d like?”

“No daisies.” Sam says quickly. “Too obvious.”

This time Cas can’t keep the smile off his face, and Sam sighs.

Castiel plucks a few chrysanthemums out of their bucket and takes them into the back room. He hadn’t actually planted any white ones, but it was easy to change the color with a simple spell. He adds a light happiness charm to the whole thing, and wraps the stems in yellow cloth just to be sure, bringing it back out for Sam’s approval.

“Wow. That looks great, Cas.” Sam’s standing at the counter already, wallet in hand.

“Thank you.” He rings up the purchase and pulls out a slip of paper. “Where would you like them delivered?”

He has his suspicions, but he’s not entirely confident he’s right until Sam blushes bright red and answers, “Jessica’s. Secretly, please.”

Castiel smiles. “She’ll never learn who sent it unless you give your consent.”

The relief on Sam’s face is obvious, and he looks like he’s about to lean over the counter to give him a hug. “Thanks, Cas.”  He checks the clock behind Castiel’s shoulder. “She gets home in about three hours, so if you’re not busy by then…”

“Of course. Don’t worry, Sam. I’ve got this.” He gives him a thumbs up to prove he’s got this, and Sam’s answering chuckle is less embarrassed.

“Thanks.”

Of course, a day after delivering the flowers Jessica barges into his shop in the middle of his lunch break, demanding to know who sent them. They might be police officers, but they really are blind.

He tells her he’s not allowed to say, and she huffs and steals a bite of his sandwich before turning and marching back out the door.

 


	4. iv

_iv._

Castiel wakes up one sunny Saturday morning to the chirping of birds, the smell of flowers, and an incessant tapping on his window. Burying his head under a pillow does nothing to muffle the sound, and he growls angrily, flipping back over to see—

—the owl from before sitting on his windowsill, _taptaptaptaptap_ tapping it’s beak on the glass.

“What the hell?” he mumbles, dragging himself out of bed and blinking blearily. The owl is still tapping on the window, but not as much as before. He thinks he recognizes it, familiar black eyes and striped wings.

He feels like he’s half asleep still as he trudges slowly into the kitchen, hearing a faint indignant hoot, and grabs a small bowl and honey, pouring it into the bowl and opening the kitchen window. He places it on the windowsill and the owl flaps over, pecking at it.

Really, Cas is barely awake, so he can’t be blamed for not realizing that owls don’t eat honey. He trudges slowly to the bathroom, splashing his face with cool water and pulling on some sweatpants before stepping back into the kitchen, starting his tea.

He nearly shatters his mug when the owl hoots again, and he turns to frown at it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?” Cas growls, setting the kettle on the stove and lighting the burner.

The owl hoots again as if it’s responding, then leans down to peck at the honey again. Cas pulls out the granola and stares at the owl some more. Really, something about it is giving him strange vibes.

The kettle goes off just about the same time the owl gives a screeching hoot, and Cas nearly chokes on his granola, quickly turning off the stove. He turns to glare at the owl, but it’s flapping it’s wings gently, and Cas can see the shine of honey all over it’s beak and feathers.

Castiel is an idiot.

The owl hops around, seemingly trying to shake the sticky stuff off of it, but it’s no use and it gives a frustrated trill, looking at Cas.

The strangely friendly bird hops onto his outstretched arm, and Cas sets him on the sink’s faucet, grabbing a rag and some all-organic dish soap. But then he stops. The owl was the one to wake him up, and Cas is still grouchy about that. He still doesn't even know why it's here. It could stand to wait until he finished his breakfast.

With narrowed eyes, he sets the soap and rag to the side, keeping eye contact as he picks up his granola and yogurt and takes a large bite, savoring it. But when he picks his spoon up for a second bite, the owl screeches, flapping angrily and flinging honey all over Cas and the kitchen.

Castiel glares at the owl and takes another bite, and this time he ignores the annoyed trills until he’s done with his food.

He washes his bowl out and fills it with warm water and soap, having used most of his magic at the shop and not quite willing to use any more. There was a well-used stretch in his muscles that reminded him of his now near-constant use of his powers that he’s never really done since he was a child, and as much as he savored his new home that gave him more freedom than he’s really ever had, he liked doing things the normal way too.

Cas soaks the rag in the warm soapy solution and the owl sticks out a wing, giving him access to the under-feathers that had gotten sticky after the owl’s angry flapping.

He gets halfway through and he’s half expecting the owl to start purring; it’s eyes are nearly closed and it’s leaning into Cas’ hand whenever he runs it over it’s feathers. There’s not much honey left, but he keeps cleaning. Every time he pulls away it hoots softly, and every time Cas begrudgingly goes back to stroking it's feathers.

Eventually, though, there's nothing left to clean up, and he sets the rag aside to whisper a quick spell, blowing on his feathers and drying them instantly. It ruffles up in surprise, eyes quickly blinking open, then flaps up, circling his head before ducking out the window. Castiel watches in bemusement, still wondering what an owl was doing out at this time of day.

He ends up spending most of the first half of his day starting a garden behind the shop, realizing that his own at home wasn't keeping up with his orders, magic-fueled or not. He makes sure to plant special flowers for the honeybees, and he's just finishing up planting his first round of seeds when Sam's clodding sasquatch footsteps catch his attention.

"Are you sure you're a gardener, Cas?" Sam smiles as Cas steps back into the shop, "You look an awful lot like a witch to me."

Castiel freezes, heart suddenly pounding. “What?”

“Your sunhat, Cas,” Sam chuckles. “It’s got a pointy tip.”

The hat had been in his family for generations, but he’s never really payed attention to it. He pulls it off his head and checks to see if Sam’s telling the truth, then hums. “It seems it does.”

Panic was still thrumming under his skin, but Sam doesn’t seem to have anything else to say. In fact, he looks a little tired, in regular clothes and beat-up work boots.

“Anyway,” Sam clears his throat, “I just wanted to stop by and give you the heads up that tomorrow’s the full moon and phone service right now is really spotty. So, be careful.”

Castiel nodded. The full moon—that could mean— _Dean._ No—He’s not going to get excited. Sam was shifting from foot to foot, and Castiel frowned.

“Do you have somewhere to be, Sam? Don’t let me keep you.”

“No, no, I was just, uh—I was gonna head out to the cemetery. My dad’s buried there.”

“Oh.” Cas pauses for a second, then makes up his mind. “Let me come with you.”

**  
  
**

They walk, even though it’s a bit far. It’s overcast and the seeds in Cas’ hands feel like ten-pound weights, and Sam seems just as quiet as him.

He’d decided to plant marigolds and roses at Anna’s grave. He’s avoided it pretty well so far, and the flowers were more of an apology than anything else. But the silence was oppressive and he was slowly being consumed by unwelcome thoughts.

 _You failed_ , they whispered, y _ou weren't there and they died because of it._

He clears his throat. "You said your father was buried there?"

Sam nods.

"I'm sorry," Castiel corrects himself. "I shouldn't be asking—"

"No, no," Sam interrupts, "it's fine." He gives a heavy sigh and runs his hand through his hair. "He wasn't—he wasn't father of the year. My mom died when I was six months old from a nursery fire, and he uh, went a little crazy. He was convinced her killer was living in the woods somewhere close to our house, and he'd go missing for days at a time. Eventually we'd always find him at the edge of the woods somewhere, passed out drunk. He was one of Ellen's best customers."

"So his death..." Cas starts. He assumes it's a bit rude to outright ask, but he's curious.

Sam snorts. "Car crash on the edge of town, when I was sixteen."

They pass the park, the smell of fresh flowers still lingering from yesterday's farmer's market, and the bushes and wildflowers in full bloom, bursts of bright color standing out against the shades of green.

"I'm sorry," Cas responds.

"It's alright—I mean, I was kinda broken up about it for a while. I'd hated the man while he was alive, but after I just felt... petty.” He sighs again. “I was so angry, all the time. I just wanted to pretend everything was fine, you know? It was exhausting, trying to shut off like that. Eventually I just kinda ...cracked. Bobby and Jess cleaned me up."

“I can empathize.”

Sam gives him a look he can’t decipher, and then Castiel’s attention is diverted by the church coming up in the distance, the grass around it a scraggly half-dead mess and the concrete of the empty lot cracked and broken. He can see the graveyard peeking out behind it, and a pit of dread begins to knot his stomach. It had seemed like a good idea before, but the closer he got, the more he wanted to turn tail and run.

Then Sam was opening the squeaking metal gate and telling him he’d meet back up with him soon, a warm hand pressing on his shoulder before he was walking away, following a path he’d quite obviously walked a hundred times before.

Castiel steeled himself, taking a deep breath in and letting it out slowly before wandering through, inspecting headstone after headstone for a familiar name.

He found her seven headstones away from an old willow tree, made of pink granite. He found it almost comical, the only reminder of her existence and impact on his world a slab of rock half buried in the ground. He kneeled and traced her name with his fingertip, her birth, her death, the quote his mother had chosen after he’d refused to have any part in her burial and instead smothered himself in alcohol.

_thy hair is acold with dreams, love thou art frail_

He smiled ruefully. His mother had loved E. E. Cummings. Anna had thought he was pretentious.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, rolling the seeds in his hand around. Cas dug two small holes with his fingers, planting them and covering them with dirt. “I’m so very sorry.”

He pressed his palms down on the earth and focused his energy, the familiar warmth in his palms and buzzing in his veins. The flowers grew slower than he’d thought they would, aware of every centimeter they gained until they were done, and he slumped to the side, ears ringing.

It took a couple seconds to regain his bearings, and he slowly opened his eyes.

The flowers weren’t right.

The roses were supposed to be red, but they were instead a deep crimson, and the marigolds had grown a dark orange instead of yellow.

He feels tepid air on the back of his neck and looks up sharply, face only inches away from Anna’s.

Anna.

He falls back in alarm, chest pounding as she continues to lean over him, looking worse than usual. Her skin’s even more discolored and there are deep bruises around her dead white eyes, and he’s frozen with fear thrumming under his skin as she pulls her arm up, sleeves damp with something, and taps one rotten finger against her wrist.

“Cas!”

He can hear someone yelling for him but he can’t respond, lungs seized by panic as she lowers her arms and seems to lean even impossibly closer over her own headstone, and he can hear his name called a second time but he can’t respond, can’t look away, and finally a third time he spares a glance to his right but when he looks up again she’s gone, and he can move.

He’s shaking as he gets to his feet, and his voice is hoarse when he calls back.

“There you are.” Sam sighs as he steps around the willow tree, but seems to falter when he sees him. “Cas, you okay?”

“I’m—” his voice wobbles, and he clears it, “I’m fine.”

Sam steps closer and gives him a sympathetic smile. “C’mon. Let’s go get drunk.”

It turns out Ellen has a rather impressive selection of alcohol, but he’s not that interested in drinking, this time. Sam starts leaning on him halfway through the night, giggling about something or other with Jo, but Castiel’s mind is occupied with dead sisters and mysterious forests and a god with golden-brown hair.

He just doesn’t _get it._ Is he going crazy? Why else would he be hallucinating his sister’s ghost? Why the hell does she keep reaching for him?

What in god’s name is going on around here?

**  
  
**

 

The next morning is not pleasant, the bone-deep ache or extended magic use extremely uncomfortable combined with his hangover, and he decides not to go to the farmer’s market, and instead stays home filling out orders. Cutting and arranging flowers is strangely therapeutic, and he finds himself relaxing slightly as he finishes his work.

But he's still tense, and he takes his lunch of PB&J out for a walk in the forest with him, hoping spending his lunch among nature will clear his senses.

He doesn't know if Anna's figure is real. He doesn't know if he's finally fallen off the deep end, either. All he knows is that the plants won’t judge him and the birds won’t attempt to send him cryptic messages while assuming the form of his dead sister.

He stops at the rotten log, but it’s too wet to sit on, so he keeps going. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a large tree with thick roots, and immediately turns to find it. It comes into view through the foliage, a large, leaning thing, and Cas can see it’s sister just behind. But the closer he gets, the more familiar it seems, until he’s walking past the arch and into the meadow.

Dean’s meadow.

The place is a bit brighter and wider than before, with what seems to be Dean, sunning himself on his stomach in what looks like a large, ground-level nest made up of grass and flowers and a couple of feathers. This time, instead of goat legs or a buck’s body, he looks mostly human, save for the large tan wings almost the length of his entire freckled body. Familiar tan wings.

He hasn’t seemed to notice Castiel yet, feathers fluttering slightly in the light breeze, so Cas steps forward, and a wing twitches.

A couple steps further and there’s no further reaction, so he clears his throat. Dean’s wings puff up and flap around as he quickly rolls to his feet, looking extremely defensive until he catches sight of Cas, eyes widening in surprise.

“What are you doing here?”

Castiel is taken aback by the question. “The trees were right there.” Cas frowns, pointing back to the entrance. “I assumed you wanted me here.” There’s jelly dripping onto his hand.

Dean relaxes his stance, wings lowering then _flump_ ing to the ground where they twitch like he’s embarrassed.

“I don’t exactly have… full control over the meadow,” he mumbles, sitting back on his haunches. Castiel comes closer, intending, this time, to milk Dean for all the information he can get.

“You don’t?” Cas asks, sitting down next to him.

Dean shakes his head, then looks over at Castiel’s curious eyes, sighing and scratching absently at his face as he stretches back out. “It doesn’t—it doesn’t exist on your plane of reality, really. The gods live on a different plane than humans, and this meadow kind of lies in between them. But I don’t control it, I just kind of go where it goes.”

Then he smirks and leans back while Cas takes a bite of his sandwich. “None of the immortal dicks come down here, either. Most of them think anything below their world is dirty and impure, so they don’t bother. It’s my happy place.”

He sighs and turns to Cas. “What are you doing here? Don’t you usually show up near sunset?”

He shrugs, chest oddly warm that Dean had noticed such a thing. “Day off.”

Dean hums and lays back into his nest again, wings thumping slightly to get comfortable, and his chest adornment that he’s always wearing glitters in the midday sun as he stretches to peek at Cas eating his sandwich.

It’s then that Castiel realizes Dean is completely naked.

He coughs, averting his eyes back to Dean’s face. “You’re naked.”

He hums, raising an eyebrow. “Does it bother you?”

Cas has to stop and think for a moment. It’s not truly bothering him, really. In a way it’s almost refreshing.

“No,” he responds. Besides, Dean’s far from unimpressive. But then, he’s a god.

But he must have picked up on the slight awkwardness in the air, because he shifts position so that his wing covers most of everything. Except now, he’s staring even more intensely at the PB&J in Cas’ hands.

“What is that stuff?”

Cas pauses, about to lick jelly off his thumb. “It’s jelly.”

Dean frowns at it before extending a hand. “Gimme a bite.”

Reluctantly, he hands it over, watching as Dean pulls himself into a sitting position and pulls his wings—Castiel’s certain he’s seen them before—into his lap before stuffing half of the sandwich in his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. There’s a distracting smear of jelly on the corner of his mouth, and Castiel almost doesn’t notice Dean holding the PB&J out for him to take back, nose wrinkled.

A smile breaks out on his face as he watches Dean attempt to wipe off the remaining jelly—clearly, he’s not a fan.

“You don’t like it?” Cas asks, taking a more reasonable bite into the sandwich as Dean shakes his head.

“I’m more of a red meat kinda guy,” he responds, wings flapping lightly like they’re shaking something off.

He laughs at Cas’ concerned eyes. “What, you think just ‘cause I look over the forests means I like that fru-fru salad crap?”

Castiel isn’t just surprised—no, he’s _shocked_. Red meat? Definitely not something he was expecting. Dean still looks amused.

“Look,” he says, “fruits, herbs, they’re fine. But nothing beats a freshly roasted buck.”

Cas finishes his lunch, unsure what to say next. Dean’s fidgeting wings catch his attention again, and he pays closer attention. He feels as if he’s ran his fingers over them before, and it takes him a second to figure out why.

The pieces snap together suddenly, and then he’s reaching forward for them, forgetting they’re attached to a god until they snap back suddenly, startling him. Dean’s drawn back, regarding him cautiously, and Cas sits back, feeling both stunned and stupid at the same time.

“You’re the owl.”

Dean’s eyes widen comically, and he honest-to-gods _blushes_ , suddenly acting much like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Purple and white carnations sprout up around the nest in clumps, and it takes Castiel a few seconds to get his brain back on track.

“The spotted owl.” The events of the past month come flooding back, and then he’s narrowing his eyes. “You woke me up just for honey.”

“Hey,” Dean says, relaxing into the nest once more, “I didn’t ask for the honey, you just put it there.”

“And _you_ got it everywhere and then refused to leave until I had cleaned it off of you. You’re a _god_ , you could’ve just magicked it away!” he shoots back.

Dean scoffs. “I couldn’t blow my cover.”

“What cover? There was no cover!”

Dean’s suppressing laughter now. Cas blows air out of his nose and leans back, glaring at Dean. He’s the most infuriating person Cas has ever had the pleasure to spend time with. (Well, not a person.)

There’s a short silence, while Dean’s wings twitch a bit, kicking up a breeze that ripples through the entire meadow.

Castiel studies Dean’s face. It fits him, like some intricately carved statue depicting a long-gone deity. But it’s not like he was just born with it, right? It could simply be the body he had when he was turned, but that kind of ethereal beauty doesn’t seem like it’d come from a mortal man thousands of years ago.

“Where did you get your face?” he asks. Dean looks surprised at the question, and it takes him a few seconds to formulate an answer.

“Are you asking me where’d I get my human form?” he says, and Cas nods. Dean snorts. “That’s a bit morbid, Cas.” But his face is serious, and he seems to be debating something before standing, wings flapping a bit to balance then pulling tight against his back.

“C’mon.” He gestures for Cas to follow him. “I wanna show you something.”

They step out of the meadow and end up right around the rotten log, and Castiel follows Dean down the path he’d trodden, past where his path ended, to the left. His wings stretch out occasionally to keep a branch out of Cas’ way, and he reaches out and catches Cas’ wrist when he trips over a root, pulling him closer so his wings don’t have to stretch so wide.

The trees begin to slowly thin out, mossy rocks and planks of wood interspersed in the underbrush until they reach a broken-down moss-covered wreck of what looks to once be a house. There’s a severely overgrown field behind it, and there seems to have been two stories, once, but the house has since collapsed into a pile of odd rusted furniture and broken, moldy planks.

“What happened here?” he whispers, because this is the type of place that commands held breath and quiet voices.

Dean steps forward slowly, bare feet quiet against what’s left of the rotten foundation. “There was a guy who lived here. A guy and his brother, before what you call the second World War. The older one had a… unique view of the world. He wasn't—the same as the others, so when his brother was drafted in the war and never came back, he kinda just lost hope. He drowned in his own bathtub one evening, alone. I gave him back to the Earth and took his face as a way to remember him.”

“You can change forms at will?” Castiel says as quietly as one can when the person you’re talking to is several feet away. He doesn't really have much to say about the brothers; all he can give them is his respectful silence.

Dean looks up, a small smile on his face, and then there’s some sort of shimmer around him as something shifts, and Cas has the odd urge to blink. In less than a second there’s a large german shepherd right where Dean was standing, who proceeds to sniff about the place while Cas stands, stunned. He trails back to Castiel, nose to the ground, and sniffs around his ankles, wet nose cold against Castiel’s bare skin. His head shoots up and he looks to the right, stock still, then turns back to Cas, before giving a loud bark that makes Cas jump and trotting quickly back the way they came.

Castiel follows quickly, not wanting to lose Dean. The meadow seems to know this, because he’s only a couple feet into the forest before he comes across the arch, walking straight through to find Dean, no longer a dog, staring into the trees that circle around the meadow like there’s something hiding in them.

“So you can change forms at will, then?” Cas calls out, and Dean’s intense gaze lands on him.

Then a smirk breaks out on his face and there’s another shimmer, and suddenly he’s an olive-skinned lady with twinkling coins attached to floaty sheer cloth wrapped around her waist and the same beaded chest adornment Dean always has on lying over naked breasts. She slinks towards him, real, solid hands brushing across Cas’ face before the air warps and it’s a hummingbird, buzzing about his face.

“Now you’re just showing off.” Castiel smiles, as Dean shifts to a fat old man with a beard. He laughs, a deep, rich sound, and shifts back into the Dean Castiel has come to know, wings flapping and twitching in amusement.

“You’re just jealous,” he scoffs, turning and flopping down into the nest. Castiel pads over and places a hand on the outer edge, eyes widening at the softness despite it being made with grass and shed feathers.

A loud, unhappy sigh catches his attention and he quickly withdraws his hand.

“You should probably get going,” Dean says reluctantly. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do.”

“Ah,” Cas says in response. The atmosphere has suddenly turned awkward, and the edge of Dean’s wing, currently stretched out into the nest, flaps up and down unhappily like a cat’s tail. He still seems on edge.

“It was nice hangin’ out, though. You’re not bad for a human, Cas.” He’s got this shy little lopsided smile on his face, and white carnations are springing up around him.

“Oh.” Castiel clears his throat and rocks back on the balls of his feet. It’s one of the odder compliments he’s ever received, but it makes him feel warm and fuzzy inside for reasons unknown. “Well, thank you. You’re not bad either."

Dean’s smile is almost blinding. “I guess I’ll see you later then.”

“Sure.” Cas nods, already walking back to the entrance. It doesn’t really hit him that he’d just agreed—practically arranged, in his book—to see Dean again until he’s halfway home. He gets so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost crashes into—Anna.

He stumbles backwards, eyes wide, as she takes the finger from her rotting brown-purple lips and taps it against her wrist, bruised and discolored. His panic climbs as she stops slowly tapping her wrist and begins reaching for his throat, discolored fingers flexing.  He’s frozen to the spot, having tripped and landed on his rear; until he hears crashing in the underbrush—whipping around, all he can see are the hindquarters of an animal racing past his line of vision, and the figure is gone by the time he looks back.

It takes him a few deep breaths to stand again, and he’s still trying to stop shaking by the time he gets back to the cottage. He just doesn’t get it. He gets the feeling that she’s trying to warn him of something, but he’s got no clue as to what it could be.

With a shaky sigh, he sits at his desk, thinking he could do something simple and mindless like grinding the dried herbs he’s got hanging from the string over the kitchen archway.

Instead, his attention is caught by the thick white book on the corner of the desk. He pulls it towards him to see the title, feeling as if he should recognize it, somehow.

_THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS: A Complete Florist’s Guide_

And then it hits him; he stands up and shakes the book out, and the dried, flattened sweet pea blossoms flutter to the floor. The pea blossoms the owl had left for him. And the owl was Dean—

Why the hell had Dean given him pea blossoms?

Taking a long look at the book in front of him, he flips it back open to the page he’d pressed the flower on. The pigment that no longer resides in the flat petals had leaked pink onto the page; he traces the outline. Somehow, impossibly, Pea-Blossoms is the name of the first flower on the page.

_thank you for a lovely time, blissful pleasure, delicacy, goodbye_

He’d gotten these after the first time he’d spoken with Dean. Castiel had to admit, the bastard was crafty. He just couldn’t believe it’d taken him so damn long to make the connection. For god’s sake, he creates symbolic flower arrangements for a living.

He’d received this book from Joshua years ago, Castiel’s notes and little illustrations still covering the well-worn pages. Castiel searches out the other flowers he’d witnessed magically springing from the ground—he knew white carnations were a sign of friendliness, but he’s never seen purple before. Buttercups, too, were ones he searched out.

Purple carnations implied capriciousness. Buttercups implied childishness or childlike wonder.

Cas _really_ needs to pay better attention.

He carefully places the book back onto the desk, open, so he remembers it, placing the dried pea blossoms in the middle of the pages as a bookmark. He spends the rest of the day tending to his garden, casting suspicious looks towards the edge of the trees.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CARNATIONS: White**
> 
> _White carnations stand for sweetness, loveliness, and innocence, as well as pure love. Named "flower of the gods," it was used to create garlands for ancient Greek ceremonies._
> 
>  
> 
> **CARNATIONS: Purple**
> 
> _Purple carnations imply capriciousness. They're the rarest of all carnations, and come in shades like lilac, violet, and mauve._


	5. v

_v._

He awakes to loud, insistent knocking on his front door. He barely pulls his robe around him, limp and groggy, and squints in the blinding daylight as he yanks the door open. There’s a blonde woman in a pink tweed suit and skirt combo standing on his doorstep, looking much too happy for how early it is.

“Good morning! I hope I haven’t disturbed you—” her voice was shrill and annoying. Castiel frowns at her.

“You did,” he interrupts flatly.

“Oh.” She pauses, like she wasn’t expecting that kind of response. The longer Cas looks at her, the more uncomfortable he becomes. There's something seriously off, but he just can’t place it. “Well, I deeply apologize. I’m here on behalf of Canisbay Reality. You see, a client of mine is willing to give you a very generous offer on your... cottage here.”

She takes the folder tucked under her arm and pulls out a slip of paper to hand to him; he catches the name _C. Ferguson_ before everything is tucked away again. He barely glances at the offer before thrusting it back at her.

“It’s not for sale.”

“Yes, well, we’re aware of that. But my client is—”

“Have a good day.” Cas says through gritted teeth, closing the door in her face. He waits, listening, until he can hear the careful crunch of gravel that means she’s pulling out and driving away, but there’s only silence. After a few minutes he pulls the door open again just to tell her to go away, but she’s gone.

There’s an odd feeling crawling up the back of his neck, and he quickly shuts the door.

Wandering back to the kitchen, he wants to call Rufus, but when he picks up his phone, he’s got no service. The full moon.

The tea he makes is pepperminty, and he slowly wakes up, tsking at how large the vine over his kitchen window had gotten.

“You need to stop that,” he mumbled to the plant, “or I’m going to have to cut you shorter.”

He feels the plant's indignity at his statement as he puts out some food for Meg and gathers a few succulents in his arm to take to his shop, balancing the bouquets he made last night in the other.

But besides customers coming in to collect orders, there’s not much to do, and he’s in the middle of spritzing his succulents when the owl—Dean, he reminds himself—lands outside one of the windows.

It was around lunch time anyways, and he stops by Benny’s for a sandwich before stepping outside behind his building and wandering into the forest, looking for a familiar arch.

“Hey!” Dean calls out when Cas walks though.

“Hello yourself, Dean.” Castiel replies, smiling. “How were your last twenty-four hours?”

Dean smirks, wings stretching lazily then sinking to the ground as he pulls himself up into a sitting position. “Actually kind of boring without your stupid-ass jokes.” He stifles a yawn into the back of his hand, and he actually sort of… glows, for a second. Unless Cas is imagining things. Like how the ground nest Dean’s sitting in looks significantly bigger than it did last time. Almost like it could fit two people.

He brushes the thought aside.

“You’re still here,” Cas states.

“And you’re finally eating meat. Bravo.”

“When do you leave?” Cas asks, ignoring Dean’s jab.

He heaves a sigh. “Two more days."

"Why do you have to leave?"

Dean makes an odd face. "You're awfully chatty today." Another pause. "It’s… about balance.”

“Balance,” Castiel says.

"Yeah. I'm not the only god who watches over the forests, you know. There's tons of them from all kinds of faiths. We all just kinda switch off."

"So... there are other gods in Fox Hollow? When you're not here?"

"No," Dean says firmly. "Fox Hollow's mine."

There's breathless fire in his eyes and Castiel finds himself believing him absolutely.

"So where do you go?" Castiel asks after a moment, finishing up his sandwich. "When you're not here, I mean."

Dean hums in thought, face tilted to the sky. The meadow is filled with small, colorful wildflowers today, and Cas picks a few, marveling at how another one immediately sprouts up in it's place.

"There's a small part of the forest in Brazil, with a high tiger population that I usually go to. Poachers keep tryin' to cut it down and I just grow 'em all over again." He smirks. "Then it's India, Scotland, then back here. Sometimes I make pitstops, but not usually. I can’t really stay too long in one place."

"Wow." It sounds amazing. Cas has always wanted to travel the world, but he's never been able to. The thought of traveling whenever he wished, in seconds, was so incredibly appealing, he found himself wishing he was the one with wings.

"So you're always here around the same time, then." Castiel says, feeling something nagging at him in the back of his mind.

"Mhm." Dean's stretched out now, sunning himself, and yes, the nest is most definitely larger than it was before. "Full moon's my time."

The full moon. _The full moon_.

" _You're_ the reason everyone's electronics break around the full moon!" he almost yells, and Dean's got that wide-eyed surprised look, wings suddenly curling in on himself.

"What?"

Castiel pulls his smartphone out of his back pocket and thrusts it at the god. It won't even turn on, further proving his point.

"You've been messing with all the technology in the town! Look, my phone doesn't even work near you."

Dean pushes himself up and snatches the phone from Castiel's hand, peering at it confusedly.

"This is a phone?" he asks, eyebrows raised. "It's just a flat piece of aluminum and silicone. Phones are supposed to be—" he makes a shape with his hands, depicting what Cas tentatively believes is a home phone.

“Things have progressed quite a bit since the eighties, Dean,” Castiel answers, trying hard to hide his smile. He sees it anyways and scoffs, handing the useless device back to him.

“I guess I’ll… try, to control it.” He grimaces. He closes his eyes for a second, and suddenly Castiel’s phone beeps on.

But there’s something not as… bright, about Dean. He doesn’t like it. The flowers, too, aren’t as colorful; it’s like someone turned down the saturation ever so slightly, and it’s just not right.

But his phone will work now, people's lights will stop flickering, it'll be a welcome change from the uncountable number of years it's been happening— _but_ , a small part of him whispers, _that's it. They're used to it._

“You don’t have to,” Castiel finds himself saying. “If you have to hold yourself back, you don’t have to.”

Dean lets out a huff of air and things seem to get brighter; Castiel feels something in his chest lift as his phone shuts itself off as Dean stretches his wings out. He yawns, and Cas shares the sentiment.

"I should go." Cas sighs. "I've got flowers to tend to."

Dean hums sleepily, waving an arm in goodbye. Cas snorts.

There are bees circling his lavender flowers when he gets back to the shop, and he stops to pull out the hose and water them. The sun's higher than when he took his lunch, and he uncomfortably shields his face from the rays, wishing he had his old sunhat. He misses the owl swooping by.

The next day he finds Meg circling the shop as he steps up to unlock it, meowing at him for something—it's not like he speaks cat.

Cas sighs, picks Meg up by the middle, and walks the five feet over to Benny's.

Benny watches in amusement as Meg digs her claws in and climbs onto Castiel's shoulders, perching there, tail flicking back and forth in irritation.

"Do you have any fish, Benny?" Castiel grits out.

He can tell he's trying not to laugh. To Benny's benefit, he doesn't, but his next words do come out a little choked.

"I'll check the freezer."

A minute later he walks out with tuna on a plate, setting it down on the counter and actually chuckling when Meg claws at Cas’ shoulder, again, meowing to be put down. She laps up the tuna happily, and Castiel glares at her.

He’s reaching for his wallet when Benny shakes his head. “It’s just canned tuna, brother. Don’t bother.”

Cas sighs, but Benny leans forward, lightly stroking Meg’s fur. “I’ll tell you what, though, you ‘n me can have breakfast, and you can pay for that, if you want to so much.”

“Sounds good.” Castiel nods, sitting down at the counter. “What’s for breakfast?”

“Egg ‘n sausage scramble,” Benny calls out from the kitchen.

And just like everything else Benny makes, it’s incredible. He tells him as much, and he chuckles again.

“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Castiel asks, because it’s almost like he sold his soul for _fantastic_ cooking skills.

Benny shrugs. “Always been in me, I suppose. Served in the Navy for a while, and the men went crazy when I was the one cookin’ that night. Always made me feel good.”

“Why did you come here, then?” Cas asks around a mouthful of eggs.

“I like the quiet here. Navy was always too loud for me.” He shrugs.

Castiel understands exactly what he means; the city, with its constant noise and movement, was too much for him even on its quietest days. Fox Hollow seems to carry some sort of effortless calm; a stark contrast, but most definitely a welcomed one.

The door swings open and they both turn to look. It’s Sam, and he seems to peek behind him before entering the diner, switching his walkie-talkie off.

“Hidin’ from Jess again, Sam?” Benny rumbles, raising an eyebrow.

“Not… technically,” Sam responds, shrugging oddly. “So, uh, you know how her birthday’s today, right? I was thinking we could maybe do a… surprise birthday-dinner.”

“A surprise birthday-dinner,” Benny states, looking sceptical. “I don’t know if that’s my kinda thing, Sam, you know how I am around people.”

“You don’t have to come,” Sam says quickly. “I can pass on your gift on to her.” He trains his eyes on Cas as Benny steps into the back room.

“Uh,” he says, not used to being put on the spot. He didn’t even know Jessica’s birthday was today. “Sure, I guess. When is it?”

“Seven,” Sam says, taking the gift Benny hands to him. “It’d be great if you could come. She really likes you, Cas.”

“I think I can make it.” Castiel smiles. The door whooshes open again, and now it’s Bobby and Jody stepping in.

“What,” Benny grumbles, “is the whole station here again?”

“Nah,” Jody responds, “Victor’s holdin’ up the fort. What’re you boys talking about?”

“Jessica’s birthday—” Sam’s got a light in his eye, and Castiel finds it oddly endearing, “—I’m trying to plan a surprise dinner-party.”

“Aw, well isn’t that sweet,” Jody laughs. “We’ll be there. God knows that kid could use a party.” She pays for her coffee, petting Meg before turning back to Sam. “And what about you, huh? Your birthday’s in a couple days.”

“You know how I feel about it, Jody.”

“Uh-uh, boy.” It’s Bobby who speaks up this time. “You ain’t getting out of it, not this year. You’re turnin’ twenty-five, Sam, and we’re gonna celebrate it.”

Sam heaves a large sigh and finally says, “Fine. It’ll be a joint party then, me and Jess. Happy?”

Jody snorts at Bobby’s scowl. “Yeah, yeah.”

Cas spends the majority of his day keeping Meg out of the flowers, and crafting the perfect gift for both Sam and Jess. He decides upon a quartz crystal necklace for Jessica, infusing it with peace and calm so she can steal little moments of relaxation. After a bit of consultation with Jo over lunch, he chooses one of his larger athames as a gift for Sam, an old, tired thing, but still good. He rebuilt his own a couple years ago, and the old blade would do better with a man with a penchant for knives than a single, potion-making witch.

He wraps them up and walks over to Jessica’s around seven, finding Sam in the front, whispering to the small bunch of people grouped outside.

"She's upstairs," Sam says, as quietly as possible. "We're gonna sneak in, then surprise her." He waits for everyone's nod of approval, and as they all troop in after him Castiel begins to recognize people in the fast-fading sunlight. Ellen and Jo, Bobby and Jody, someone Cas believes is named Victor, Ash, and Bones, tail wagging excitedly but not making a sound.

They all crowd behind the kitchen island, organizing gifts on the counter before finding a space nearby to hide. It's something Castiel has never been a part of before, and it's oddly exhilarating.

They wait for a few minutes, and finally there's thumping from the stairs, Jess stepping inside and heading for the sink. Someone inhales loudly, and they all jump; it’s a cacophony of sound as everyone shouts, “Surprise!”

To Jessica’s credit, she doesn’t throw anything; although her hand is on the handle of one of her kitchen knives when someone flicks on the light. But her expression quickly shifts from fear to exasperated laughter, and they all cheer.

Claire comes in moments later, what looks like soot smeared over her cheek, looking completely bewildered. Sam hushes them all and calls for silence, a bottle of beer in one hand and Jack in the other.

“I know you all thought we forgot your birthday, Jess, but, uh, we didn’t.” He grins. “So this is for you,” he holds out the Jack and she laughs, “and the food and the presents are all for you too. Happy birthday, Jessica.”

She’s still giggling when they all start clapping, the atmosphere light and happy.

“A few of ‘em are for Sam, too,” Bobby calls out, scowling at him. Sam shrugs and starts pulling out food and chairs, and Jessica laughs at him again.

There’s a bit of commotion as everyone finds their seats, and dinner is lovely, in his opinion. Juicy grilled steak, fresh salad, amazing pie. Jess opens her presents with Claire hanging behind her, passing items on. She claps a hand over her mouth when she sees the quartz chunk hanging from a leather thread, from Cas; her sleeve slips down and he catches a peek of what looks like her upper arm, bandaged, and he’s inexplicably very relieved in his gift choice—there’s something very not right with her aura, tinged at the edges with tendrils of black. They recede slightly when she slips the necklace on, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Sam gapes at the athame when he unwraps it, examining the sheath and handle in awe. There’s a soft, “Whoa,” from Jo, and Cas gets a fluttery feeling in his chest as Sam looks up and, with sincerity in his eyes, says, “Thank you.”

He laughs at the dog treats near it, putting them aside, but he’s extra careful when putting the athame away and setting it on the kitchen counter. They get two packages of beignets from Benny, and two extra bottles of jack from Ellen; Jody gets Jessica a book she’d been asking for forever and Sam gets his own leather journal.

Presents end up with wrapping paper all over the floor and nine tipsy people crammed into a small kitchen, Claire having gone upstairs earlier. Someone starts up some music, and as Sam and Jess loop arm in arm, swaying and singing, Castiel realizes, with a start, that he’s made a family here.

****  


The next morning he awakes slightly hungover, thankfully in his own bed, memories of copious drinking and many happy faces still lingering. It’s warmer today; he finds the blankets he kicked off during the night all over his floor, mixed up in the pillows he keeps on his rug for meditating. His clothes are in a pile by the door, and it takes him a full thirty minutes and a bath to realize that today’s still a weekday.

“Shit,” he mumbles, Meg winding around his ankles in her usual fashion; he decides, with a sigh, not to open today.

Breakfast is eggs and fresh fruit, and he goes out after to check on his garden.

But what he finds is extremely odd—a patch of his geraniums are completely withered. The whole area of dirt is cracked and dry.

He frowns at it. That shouldn’t be possible. He tries to touch it, but flinches back; bad, bad magic is surrounding the whole thing. He notices it spreading to the rest of his geraniums, and comes to a decision—they all have to go. He goes to the shed and pulls out the old shovel; Anna’s old rough-cut rose quartz necklace warming at the contact.

He makes sure to remove all the roots, and the dirt surrounding it. There’s a giant hole in his garden when he’s done, but it’s better than losing all of his hard work. He disposes of the dirt with a powerful incineration spell, meant for dark magic; but it’s still bothering him that it’s there. He has no idea where it came from, and the fact that it was in his garden is even stranger.

Cas later finds himself wandering through the forest, not really looking for anything, until he comes across the arch and hesitates before stepping through. If anything, the forest looks even better than it did a couple days ago, green and healthily lush.

This time, there’s a tree hanging over Dean’s nest, Dean himself once again a centaur, shiny doe-patterned coat and dark antlers with the beads stretching between them. It’s before noon, and his chest adornment seems to be sparkling more than usual, but Dean himself still looks just as ethereal as the first time they met.

“Heya, Cas,” he calls out, stretching lazily and getting to his feet. Or hooves.

There’s a thick layer of daisies covering the meadow today, and Castiel narrows his eyes when he gets close enough to Dean; his centaur form makes him almost a foot taller than Castiel, and he doesn’t like it.

“You don’t have to stand to greet me, Dean.” Cas responds, lightly petting Dean’s coat. It’s so soft.

“Yeah, well, I missed you, you dumbass.” Dean shrugs. “Plus, I get to do this.” He shoves a hand in Cas’ hair, quickly mussing it up and quickly, gracefully, stepping out of reach of Castiel’s backhanded reaction.

He laughs, trotting around Cas before settling back in front of him, plopping back down and flattening a few daisies in the process.

“So, why are you a centaur?” Castiel questions, sitting down next to Dean. The god still towers over him, and he doesn’t like it at all.

Dean shrugs again. “I dunno, just felt like it.”

“Well. You’re very… big.” Cas says, and Dean blushes, bushes of peonies sprouting along the outer edge of the meadow. He picks a couple daisies and rises onto his knees, placing them on his antlers.

Dean scowls.

“On a different note,” Castiel sits down again, stringing more daisies into a chain, “I found black magic in my garden this morning. It killed my gardenias.”

Dean's expression turns somber. "Black magic?"

"Yes. I destroyed it, but I don't know where it's from or who put it there. And I have to grow more gardenias," he grumbles.

Dean's frown deepens as Castiel reaches up to place the string of daisies across his antlers.

"Well, I'd be able trace it and fix it if you could bring me to it." Dean scratches at one of his antlers, brushing off a few of the daisies. Castiel narrows his eyes. "There might be some left over that could spread."

"I was very thorough," Cas snipes, dumping a whole handful of flowers over Dean's head.

"Just wanted to be sure," Dean says through gritted teeth.

"You don't have to." Castiel puts a single daisy on the very top of Dean's head.

“Alright!” Dean stands suddenly, trotting a couple feet away and shaking his head, brushing off the majority of the flowers. Then there’s a shiver, and suddenly he’s naked with wings, adornment and circlet unchanged, a few daisies still stuck in his hair.  “I’m never gonna be a centaur again.”

He huffs loudly and walks over to the nest, flopping over in it, and Castiel follows.

“Why do you always lay in this?” Castiel asks, rubbing his hand over the nest once again. It looks like it’s been built up again, thicker and just as soft as before.

“It doesn’t cramp my wings.” He answers, stretching out lazily. Then he peeks from under his elbow at Cas, sighs, and gestures beside him. “C’mon. Get over here.”

Castiel smiles at the stupidly reluctant gesture, and climbs in next to him.

But Dean’s wings are still pulled tight to his body, and Castiel nudges him.

“May I touch your wings?” he asks hopefully, running his hands over the side of the nest. It’s green and smooth, feathers and flowers and dandelions all weaved together. His finger brushes over fabric while Dean mulls over his question, and he turns to look at it.

“Why is my dishcloth in your nest?” It's the same tiny flower print he has on all his rags.

He seems to have caught Dean right about to answer, mouth open and cheeks heating up.  

“Uh. Cause it looked nice?” Purple carnations are blooming near Cas’ feet, and he just shakes his head. “And uh, yeah, you can touch my wings.”

The air in Cas’ lungs seems to evaporate, and for some reason his heart is thumping double time as they slowly stretch out, Dean turning on his side so his wing reaches over to Castiel’s chest, laying lightly. The sun filtering through the tree above them makes spots of bright brown on Dean’s feathers, and Castiel carefully takes a hand and reaches over, fingers brushing through.

They both gasp.

His wing is softer than anything he’s ever felt. There are little sparks of magic tingling down his fingers as he strokes it, traveling up his arm and down his spine, and Dean seems to be trembling.

“Is this okay?” he asks quietly.

All he can do is hum, and Castiel takes that as a yes. He moves his arm farther up Dean's wing, to the tip, rubbing slowly, and it twitches slightly, up into his hand. Dean's eyes are drooping, and Cas goes further down, down to the base with downy feathers blending into his skin. It's somehow impossibly softer; Dean pushes up into his hand again and then melts, almost like a cat, letting out a deep sigh and curling up on Cas' chest, one wing stretched out over the both of them and the other laying limp at his side.

A few minutes pass and Dean’s breathing evens out, the arm and wing thrown over Cas creating a strange sort of magically grounding feeling, and he even finds himself getting sleepy, yawning into his shoulder. Dean’s just so warm, and soft, and he can’t help but admire the sleeping god. Do gods even sleep? He doesn’t know.

“You’re thinkin’ too loud, Cas.” Comes a grumble, Dean’s deep voice reverberating through Castiel’s chest.

“I thought you were asleep.” he responds, just as quiet.

“I don’t sleep. ‘M merging my multiple consciousnesses with the Earth. ‘S kinda a bitch to do,” he mumbles again, wing flapping up into Castiel’s still hand until he starts stroking again.

“Good luck.” Cas can’t keep the smile off his face. _Merging my multiple consciousnesses_ was not something he ever thought would come out of Dean’s mouth.

“Mmm,” is all Dean responds.

Under the swaying branches of the tree, wrapped in soft, soft wings, birds chirping in the distance, Castiel dozes off with a smile.

 

He wakes in his own bed, an owl perched on one of the many pots of flowers covering his dresser. It takes him a few minutes to realize it’s Dean, and that it’s near sunset, and he feels completely refreshed.

He gets up, only to finds Meg sitting at the bottom of his dresser, tail swishing back and forth angrily, staring up at Dean and clicking quietly at him. Dean’s face is unimpressed, and he flaps up from his perch, presumably to land on Cas’ shoulder, but Meg chooses that time to leap and strike, tackling him to the ground.

There’s a commotion of squawking and growling until one of them does something and there’s a loud yowl and equally loud screech; Meg runs off and Dean uprights himself, feathers puffed up. But now he’s limping slightly, wing held out to his side, and Cas gets worried, picking him up from the ground and inspecting him. Dean hoots loudly and flaps his right wing violently, the other held tight against him.

Castiel turns to glare at the doorway Meg ran out of. “I think she sprained your wing.”

Dean gives a little angry trill that Cas interprets as, “You think?”, or alternately, “I’m going to incinerate that cat,” but as he really does like Meg, he ignores the second option.

“What am I going to do with you?” Cas mumbles, transferring Dean from his hand to his shoulder, where he perches while Cas steps into the bathroom and pulls out the first aid kit. He pulls out a roll of gauze and begins wrapping Dean’s wing, and if looks could kill, Castiel would be a disintegrating dead body.

“Don’t give me that look. You wouldn’t need this if you hadn’t stuck around.” He finishes wrapping and puts Dean back up on his shoulder again, shooing a growling Meg out the side door and heading out back himself to check up on his garden. The light is fading quickly, but everything seems okay, and he can’t detect much more than the sweet perfume of his flowers.

Dean hoots all throughout Cas’ dinner, soft noises that become quite loud given how close he is to Castiel’s ear.

Finally Castiel breaks, putting Dean onto the table and picking up a piece of his chicken, offering it to the owl. He gives a little trill and snatches it up, swallowing it whole while Cas looks on, mildly disgusted. He feeds him the rest of what’s left of his dinner, ignoring Dean’s unhappy squawking as he puts everything away.

“Hush.” Castiel turns to him, truly agitated now. There’s only so many bird noises he can stand. “You got yourself into this mess, and you’re going to have to wait it out. Now I’m going to take a bath, and you are going to stay quiet.”

Thankfully, Cas doesn’t hear a peep all throughout his bath, finally relaxing in the warm water and fragrant dried flowers he’d been saving just for this. He eventually gets out when the water gets cold, getting dressed and picking a book to read, sitting out on the couch.

Dean’s sitting on his coffee table, right next to Anna’s journal, and an odd shiver runs up his spine at the thought of opening it again.

As soon as Dean’s eyes pop open, he gives a soft hoot and hops to the edge of the coffee table, readying himself for the jump. Castiel isn’t quite sure he’ll make it, but the thought of Dean missing is incredibly appealing to him.

But one large, calculated hop later, he’s crawling into Castiel’s lap, much to his surprise. He hoots again, pecking lightly at Cas’ exposed hand until he finally runs it over Dean’s head, right between his eyes, like he does with Meg.

Dean’s eyes slide closed, a light, clicking purr starting up deep in his chest. Castiel smiles, a deep, sunshine-y warmth growing near his heart as he continues to pet him. He finishes his book like that; Dean doesn’t stop purring the whole time.

 

Castiel wakes up the next morning to the sound of his refrigerator door slamming shut. _Intruders_ , his sleep-soaked mind helpfully provides, and he stumbles out of bed as silent as he can, palms out.

His cabinets slam shut, and he nearly jumps, padding as quickly as he can to the hallway entrance to the kitchen as he can, reciting all the stunning spells he knows in his head just to make sure.

He hears his silverware drawer being pulled open and he jumps out, shouting the spell; it hits Dean square in the middle of his back and he stumbles over, silverware spilling everywhere as the drawer crashes to the floor.

“Jesus christ, Dean!” Cas yells. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?”

He slowly turns to face Cas, an apple in his mouth. He shrugs like a five year old caught smearing spaghetti all over the walls, and his wings, drawn tight to his body as to not knock anything over, twitch slightly. He puts the apple on the counter and says, “Lookin’ around.”

“ _Looking around_?” Cas shouts, “I meant, what the fuck are you _doing here_?”

“Ah.” Dean rubs his bare chest, wincing, and Cas feels some sort of deep satisfaction knowing he hit him hard enough to hurt. “Well I mean, my wing healed, like, two minutes after you wrapped it, but I liked hangin’ out with you, so I stuck around. And well, I got kinda bored, so sue me.” He gestures to the mess in the kitchen, and Cas rubs a hand over his face.

“If you were hungry you could’ve just asked me for food.” He waves a hand and all the silverware lifts back into the drawer, sliding back into place.

“I don’t get hungry,” Dean grumbles, but follows right behind Cas as he opens the refrigerator. Everything inside has obviously been searched through, and Castiel turns back to glare at Dean.

“Here,” he says after a bit of deliberation, “You can have this.” He hands the last of Benny’s apple pie to Dean, grabbing leftover fruit salad for himself.

Dean tentatively tries a small bite, eyes widening comically and near stuffing his mouth with the next. It’s all gone by the time Cas sits down to eat his own breakfast, and he looks around for a minute, seemingly confused as to where he should put the empty pie tin. Eventually he just sets it down next to Cas, standing awkwardly.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” Cas asks, clearing the counter. Dean shrugs again.

“Not a big fan of the poachers. Not really allowed to kill them.” He huffs a large sigh, looking out the kitchen window, then pokes one of the vine's leaves. “But yeah, I guess I should be going.”

He turns fully and trails a hand over the baby succulents on the window sill, growing them to their near-full size; Castiel’s attention, though, is focused on the mark right between Dean’s wings. It’s the color of fading henna ink, a sun with two long rays, going up and down, shorter ones going side to side. It’s about the size of Castiel’s hand, and for some unknown reason, it steals his breath away.

Sun. Dean is made of sunshine and glorious, radiating light.

Cas watches as he pushes the window open, half climbing onto the counter and shimmering into the same spotted owl, screeching goodbye and flying away.

Castiel’s thoughts, once again, are stuck on Dean as he tends to his garden. He heads to his shop with handfuls of fresh-cut flowers, opening half an hour earlier than usual and reviving all the flowers that need it, restocking the herbal charms and succulents.

Most of the day is rather uneventful, filling orders with a smile and encouraging his fast-growing garden out back.

Around three, though, Sam stops by, Jessica in tow. “Hey, Cas.”

“Hello Sam, Jessica.” He nods.

“So, we just got wind that the school’s doing a career-day thing next week, and we just wanted to tell you that you should sign up.” Sam’s doing that eager-smile thing, and Castiel already knows he’ll be signing up.

“Why would they want me there?” he asks anyways.

“Well, you’re a florist. You turned gardening into a career. The kids’ll love it.”

“They usually just get firefighters and police officers and Benny every year.” Jessica adds. Cas notices that her whole palm is bandaged; he makes a mental note to ask her about it later.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll do it.”

* * *

 

The day of the fair rolls around a week later, and he finds himself feeling rather… nervous. He put together a little routine for the kids, but they’re so small and… loud.

All the first and second graders were being shuffled into a classroom, teachers barking out orders. He waves at a few of them.

He watches Sam and Jessica step up into the room and talk about being a police officer, bright smiles on their faces and light laughs at some of the children’s questions. Benny’s next, and quite a few of the children seem to know him already, calling out his name and waving until the teachers shush them.

Castiel goes next, and all the kids watch on in interest; none of them recognize him. He speaks about his ‘career’, about helping the bees and growing beautiful flowers, and then he does his trick.

“I have a friend here,” he says, “but he’s very shy. He’ll only come out if you’re very quiet.” He moves his hand in front of his sleeve, and with a gentle pulse of magic, the snippet of vine he’d cut earlier in the day grows out, following his fingers as he leads it up his arm and around his shoulders, wrapping once more around his neck like a glorified living necklace.

Even the teachers were entranced, and everyone starts clapping as soon as he’s done. It’s a bit of a surprise, and it takes him a moment to remember the flower buds in his bag, slung around his shoulders; he grows a small flower for every child, and although he’s breathing heavily by the end of it, their amazed smiling faces make it worth it.

He does the same thing for the third, fourth, and fifth graders, everyone bunched up in one classroom again. Someone hands him a coffee when he’s done, and he accepts it gratefully, following Sam and the children outside to the playground.

It’s the first of June, and it most definitely feels like it, the sun warming every surface out there and bugs lazily buzzing around, hopping from flower to flower. He’s sitting on one of the benches, amusedly watching a group of second graders attempting to paint Sam’s gigantic fingernails, when a little boy comes running up to him, big eyes wet with unshed tears.

“B-Billy broke my flower,” he sniffs. “Can you fix it?” He thrusts the tulip at Castiel, the stem snapped in half.

“Oh, oh boy,” Castiel says soothingly. “You brought it to me just in time. Don’t cry, I can make her good as new.”

He carefully takes the yellow flower from the little boy’s fist, wrapping both hands around it. A quick, easy pulse of magic fixes it just fine.

“There you are,” he murmurs, handing it back. The boy perks up, and Castiel can’t help but smile at his unadulterated joy.

“Thank you!” he shouts, before running off again.

Castiel can’t feel Sam’s eyes on him.

"Cas! Cas, wait up!" Sam's running up behind him, paying no attention to the roar of car after car passing them by, school having ended around ten minutes ago.

He falls into step with Castiel, seemingly considering his words for minute. “I saw what you did.” He says, finally. “On the playground, to John’s tulip.”

Fear strikes cold into Castiel’s heart. Sam’s face is dead serious, and he doesn’t know how he should respond. He doesn’t know how people will react, if Sam will tell—his mother had been warning him of witch hunts since he was a child. His brother had died of one when he was a baby. He desperately doesn’t want to experience the same fate.

“How—How’d you do it?” Sam continues. “I’ve gone over it in my head and it just doesn’t make sense, there’s no way you could have switched it out with another—” he stops when he sees Castiel’s white face, and backs up a couple steps, palms out.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Cas.”

The panic thrumming under Castiel’s skin calms some, and he tries to breathe normally.

“I just wanna know—was it real?” Sam asks, palms still out. He doesn’t know it’s a defensive position, Castiel tells himself. His hands haven’t changed in color—he’s completely human.

“Yes,” Castiel responds cautiously.

Something in Sam shifts and he straightens his posture, staring straight at him. “Prove it.”

Cas sighs. He’s already so tired from using his magic all day, but he obliges, pulling out one of the last of his flower buds and placing it in the middle of his palm, the deep, orange glow of magic illuminating it. Sam watches on in awe as the flower unfurls and then shoots up, budding and blossoming all under a minute. He hands the tulip to Sam, and sucks in a deep breath to steady himself. “Have I proven myself enough yet?” he sighs. “Because I’d really like to get home and sleep.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam says, and then he catches Castiel’s arm as he passes. “I didn’t mean to scare you or anything. I’m sorry.”

Cas nods. “Just… don’t tell everyone. Alright?”

“Of course,” Sam breathes, still fingering the tulip.

Castiel nods goodbye, still shaky from the adrenaline rush earlier, which is probably why he sees Anna standing in his gravel driveway the moment he turns into the tree-covered road.

She’s got her hand outstretched and her skin looks rotten all around—he can hear her wheezing, rattling breath.

 _She’s not real_ , he tells himself. _She’s not real, she’s not real, she’s not real._

He runs into his home and shuts the door, throwing his bag to the side and grabbing a jar of white ash he keeps for protection, sprinkling it over the doorway. He places two lit white candles in every window he can, and he’s only satisfied when he can feel the lines of protection stretching across his cottage. He slips a little pouch of lavender and quartz under his pillow to fend off nightmares, and tries to lull himself to sleep.

He wakes up the next day, a Saturday, to the sight of Dean sitting on one of the pillows he’s got on his floor.

He rubs his eyes just to make sure he's not hallucinating again, then sits up in bed, bright green eyes staring back into his own.

"Heya, Cas." Dean grins.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Cas grumbles, but it comes out more like, "Wha thhell're ydoin' here?"

Dean shrugs, infuriating smile still in place. "Thought I'd stop by."

Cas groans and flops back down into his pillow, warm June air floating through the open window above his head.

It takes him a few minutes to wake up enough to climb out of bed, and when he does, he takes in Dean's position on the floor; legs wide open, one arm wrapped around a raised knee.

"Put some pants on." Cas groans, shuffling to the bathroom.

When he shuffles out a couple minutes later, Dean's perched on the chair at Cas' desk, a rough strip of leather resembling a speedo the only article of clothing on his body.

Castiel huffs and has his breakfast with Dean hovering behind him, interrupting the chirping of birds with complaints about the size of the cottage. Castiel continually reminds him that the size of his wings are not his fault.

He's still hanging around while Castiel waters and tends to his garden, clipping flowers and leaving spots of sugar water for the bees.

"Are you just going to hang around all day?" Castiel asks him eventually, putting the watering tin back by the back door and gathering his flower bundles.  

Dean shrugs. "I like your company."

Cas snorts. "Well, I'm glad you enjoy your time with me, but don't you have places to be?" He heads inside, hearing the thump of Dean's feet right behind him.

"I got a smaller god to share my duties. I just gotta eat less ambrosia."

"Just so you could hang around me?" Castiel asks incredulously, hanging the bundles of flowers for drying from the kitchen arch. It's oddly... flattering, in a way.

There's no response, and when Cas looks over, Dean's blushing. A strange sort of warmth explodes in Castiel's chest, and he can feel his cheeks heating as well.

Dean follows him back into the kitchen while Cas washes his hands, throwing his gardening gloves to the side.

But when he looks up, Anna's standing in the middle of his garden, and he wants to ignore her, brush it off as another hallucination, but Dean's gone stock still and is staring at the exact same place.

She brings her finger to her lips, bright sunlight making her look even worse than usual. And then her mouth twists into a horrifying grin, and it takes every ounce of Castiel's strength to not cover his eyes and scream.

There's a tense silence while they both look at her and then there's a loud, echoing knock on the door, making the both of them jump.

Cas doesn't have time to contemplate why Dean seems able to see her, doesn't want to think about what it could mean if her figure wasn't a figment of his hyperactive mind—he yanks the door open, and finds himself facing the realtor from before.

"Hello!" she chirps, in the exact same pink tweed suit she was wearing last time, "I hope I'm not bothering you—"

"You are," Castiel growls. "I've told you I'm not interested."

"Yes, well, my client—"

"Goodbye." He shuts the door in her face, once again, and drops his forehead to the wood; wishing, for once, that he was a normal human being. He just wants things to make sense again—he didn't ask for the ghoulish dead sister following him around, he didn't ask for the vanishing realtor, he didn't ask for these stupid fuzzy feelings over a god—no.

There are no feelings. Dean is his friend. That's it.

A warm hand lands on his shoulder, and his world gets a little bit brighter. "Cas? You okay?"

He isn't sure. Meg crawls around his ankles, meowing softly, and he sighs.

"I think I'm just going to nap for a while,” he says, because the weight of everything bothering him is suddenly crashing down around him and he doesn’t think he should be awake much longer.

Dean follows him to the bedroom and watches him climb into bed. He turns to change, Cas can feel it, the shivery flavor in the air, and reaches out as if he could stop him.

“Stay,” Castiel hears himself say. “Please. Stay.”

Dean pauses in the doorway, then turns back, locking eyes with Castiel before climbing into the bed with him. His wings flutter about before finding a comfortable spot, one behind Castiel’s head, and he’s got an arm wrapped around him. It’s everything Cas didn’t ask for.

“Cas,” Dean murmurs as Castiel drifts off.

“Hmm?”

“Did you know Meg has three eyes?”

“What?” He sits up quickly, staring at the cat sitting at the foot of their bed, but she looks completely normal to him. “No she doesn’t.”

Meg blinks at him, and Dean snickers. “She’s calling you a blind idiot.”

“Oh, great, you talk to animals too,” Cas grumbles, sliding back down and pillowing his face into Dean’s wing.

He drifts off to the sound of Dean’s quiet laughter.

Dean’s still there when he wakes early the next morning, the sun barely peeking past the trees and Meg curled up asleep on Dean’s chest. It’s much too early to head out to the farmer’s market, so he tidies up around the cottage, leaving Dean on his bed, asleep or meditating or whatever it is he does.

He’s reorganizing the coffee table when Anna’s leather bound journal falls into his line of sight.  

There’s a light film of dust on in, visually reminding him how long it’s been since he’s picked it up. Though, you can’t blame him.

Slowly, carefully, he sits down with the journal in his lap, and flips to the first page, the apology. He flips past.

The next page is an entry, from two years before. She'd just gotten the journal bound with new pages again.

He takes his time, stopping to feel the indent of her pen on the pages and admire the drawings strewn across. But about halfway through, something changes. It's an entry marked a year and a half ago, and the handwriting is shaky, although undeniably Anna's.

                      _Someone' s i n my yard they'rewatching me_

It makes his blood run cold. He entertains the idea of sleep-writing, she's done it before—but he knows, deep down, that's not what it is.

The next entry is perfectly fine, but she skips an entire week, three jagged edges between the two telling him something's been ripped out.

Another scritchy, nonsensical entry shows up, this time her words so thick that she cut through the paper with her pen.

                    _HES IN MYHEAD_

Castiel flips the journal closed.

He steps outside, and sits down in the middle of his garden. The sounds of the forest lull his thoughts away, and he barely notices Dean's soft footsteps until he's sitting down next to him.

"So who was that, yesterday?"

Cas sighs. “Some realtor. She was trying to buy the cottage for a man named C. Ferguson.” Dean sighs loudly, but doesn’t say anything, and Cas looks over suspiciously. “Does it mean something to you?”

“No—uh, no. It’s just—I’ve got something to do, I just remembered. Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you worry.” He cuffs the back of Castiel’s head with his wing as he stands, grinning down at him and waving with a, “See ya later, Cas,” and shimmering into an owl, flapping up and out of sight.

He sighs heavily. Dean knows something that he’s not telling him. Castiel lets his head fall into his hands, and groans.

 

The farmer’s market is just as lovely as the first day he went, but everything weighing on Cas’ shoulders makes it hard to enjoy. He smiles at all his customers purchasing the small pouches of fragrant dried flowers he prepared, but some of them give him an odd look, like they know it’s not real.

“These smell lovely, Cas.” It’s Jessica, hand still bandaged.

“Thank you, Jessica, but…  what happened to your hand?” It’s been itching at him ever since her birthday party. Something about it worries him, like the black tendrils snaking around her aura he saw that night too.

“Oh.” She seems to clam up almost instantly. “Just—cooking accident. My hand slipped.” The quartz pendant he gave her earlier is nowhere in sight.

“I’m sorry about that. I have some herbal ointments I can make for—”

“No!” Her quick interruption even seems to scares herself, and she shakes her head. “Sorry. It’s not necessary. You don’t have to do anything.”

"Okay." There's an awkward pause where she gets waved over by Sam, eagerly showing her all-organic dog treats, and she says her goodbye, hurrying away.

The rest of the pouches sell by midday, and Cas stops by his shop on the way home to tend to the garden there. Things are growing beautifully, bees buzzing all about his lavender, and he welcomes the mind-numbing work of pulling weeds with open arms.

He stops at Benny's for a sandwich and walks home with it, completely bypassing the cottage in favor of the forest, thick and green. Nature seems to be the only thing grounding him, and the cottage, with it's memories and journals, is not somewhere he wants to be right now.

He ambles slowly through the trees, with no set path, running his hands over bark and through the ferns. He keeps walking even after he's finished his lunch, breathing in the fresh forest air.

He doesn't really realize what he's stumbled upon until he gets near enough.

It's a thick, old looking tree, not completely uncommon. But it's absolutely thrumming with energy. He can feel it under his feet, a steady, humming pulse.

And the tree seems... brighter, than the ones surrounding it, all in a wide circle. He's drawn forward, hands outstretched, and gasps the moment his skin makes contact with the bark.

It's familiar, the energy flowing through this tree. He recognizes it, pure nature, unfathomable raw power and life. He takes a few stumbling steps back from it, hands tingling like he'd been shocked, and

he's in the cottage, feeling residual energy flow into the space and blinking at the sudden change in scenery.

“That was odd.” He says to nobody in particular.

He mentions it to Dean the next day, while they’re sprawled out together in the middle of the meadow, watching the clouds pass.

“What?” Dean says sharply, looking over at him.

“It was a tree.” Castiel responds, confused. “It was like it—like it was filled with the energy of the entire forest.”

Dean looks worried, now, face contorting as he turns back to the sky, small grey mushrooms sprouting slowly out of the grass around his head.

“Why? What is it?” Castiel asks, sitting up and facing him. Dean’s behavior is really starting to get to him. He can’t keep all of his secrets locked up forever.

“It’s nothing.” His answer is short and clipped.

“It’s obviously not nothing, Dean.”

“Look, I said it was nothing, alright?” Dean’s sitting up too, wings drawing in tight around his body. “Just leave it.”

“I can’t, Dean. If it’s bothering you that much—”

“If it’s bothering _you_ that much,” Dean interrupts, “then I think you should leave.”

Castiel feels like he’s been punched in the face, and Dean refuses to even look at him.

“Fine.” he says, after a tense silence. Dean’s turned away from him when he looks back from the entrance, wings hiding him from Castiel’s gaze.

He leaves.

He passes Anna on the way home, and pays no attention to her. The sun’s just starting to go down but it’s almost as dark as night; there are purple storm clouds brewing above him, only adding to the heavy, humid atmosphere.

He doesn’t understand Dean, that much was made obvious tonight. He doesn’t understand the tree. He doesn’t understand Anna. Cas doesn’t understand anything.

He falls asleep to the sound of thunder and wakes to the sounds of sirens.

It’s still raining, he can hear that much, but everything else is far-off shouting and loud, passing sirens.

He stumbles out of bed and gets dressed quickly, grabbing his old umbrella from beside the door and stepping outside. It’s still raining heavily, _pat pat pat_ tering loudly, and there are a couple groups of people walking in the direction of Harmony Creek, a police car speeding by them.

He catches up with them, and the crowd of people only grows the closer he gets to the bank.

Then he turns the corner.

There are two firetrucks and an ambulance parked on the bank, several officers holding back the crowd as EMT’s covered in protected garb drag a bloated, familiar body out of the water. Where he’s standing, he can see above the crowd, see the brown hair and the waterlogged flannel shirt, body too decomposed and discolored to recognize his face, but—it’s Ash.

Ash is dead.

He watches, just as shocked and numb as the rest of the crowd, as they pull him into a body bag and up onto a stretcher, watches Sam step back from the crowd and over to the shaking form of Ellen, watches Jo sag into his arms, watches people disperse as the ambulance pulls out and away, taking Ash with them.

He feels Jody’s hand on his shoulder, something that should be a comforting gesture, but he’s cold. He didn’t know Ash well, barely knew him at all, in fact, but another death, the same river, it’s all cold, cold, cold inside.

Cas turns, and goes back home.

 

 

He threw away all his pills when he moved. He knows that. He’s still got a bottle of whiskey in the cabinet, but it’s not what he’s looking for.

He was sure he still had the seeds somewhere, willing to exhaust himself growing the plant from scratch if he needs to, but he’s sure they were somewhere.

The trunk. Anna’s trunk, there was something in that, right? He shoves everything off the top and searches through the chest with trembling fingers, pushing past the junk for the one bag, one bag he knows is here, he knows it—there. The bag shakes with his hands as he pulls the bud and pipe out, leaving everything else on his desk, lighting up, inhaling, inhaling—

Exhaling.

The world’s spinning seems to slow a bit as he holds the second toke in his lungs, stumbling back to his room and half cracking a window before collapsing back on his pillows.

Exhaling. His muscles relax and he sinks into the mattress, a light buzzing starting up in his body.

Exhaling.

The world slows. He slows. The thoughts and internal voices shouting at each other in his head quiet down, move to the back of his mind, and he can finally breathe.

He drifts off, getting up only to eat and piss and grab the bottle of whiskey to drown everything else out. Things start getting hazy, but he doesn’t mind.

Until he finds himself shocked back into his body, cold pouring rain soaking him to the bone, and he splutters, looking around wildly and almost stumbling into one of his rose bushes. He’s drunk. He’s drunk, and he’s high, and he’s very, very, wet.

Cas vaguely remembers the reason he decided it would be a good idea to step outside, to spite Dean or to find Dean or something of the sort, and he can’t even care that water is pouring off his body as he trips back inside and sheds his clothes, falling into his warm, dry sheets and trying to stave off his violent shivering.

His thoughts float to Dean. Dean, with his soft skin and softer, warmer wings. He’d give anything to be wrapped up in them.

 

Sam’s knocking on his front door the next morning and it jumps around in his skull, hammering away, and he barely has enough energy to pull on a robe.

“You look like shit, Cas.” Is the first thing Sam says.

“What do you want?”

“Me and Jess, we’re going to the service for Ash, up at the church and we just wanted to know if… you’d like to come?” Sam’s dressed up nicely, the closer he looks, and Cas shrugs.

“Are they burying him today?”

Sam shakes his head, somber. “Next week. The service is more of a… community thing.”

Castiel sighs heavily, weighing his choices. “Fine. Give me a minute.”

He drinks an entire glass of orange juice and gets dressed, shoes squelching in the soggy soil. Jessica seems to be even more withdrawn than before, not doing much other than staring out the window to the cloudy gray sky above.

The entire town seems to have come out, a flood of people entering the church all at once, and Castiel hesitates. Large crowds are never good for him, and churches make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t think he can do it.

“Cas?” Sam’s a couple feet ahead of him.

“I’ll wait for you in the cemetery,” he calls out, and then he’s gone before they can ask any more questions.

The ground in the cemetery is even more of a mess, shoes sinking deep into the mud. He can hear the boom of the pastor’s voice even from here, but he can’t make out what he’s saying.

Castiel says hello to Joshua first. There’s organ music floating out from the church’s stain glass windows, and it’s a nice background to the one sided conversation he’s having with a corpse six feet under.

The flowers Cas had planted at Anna’s grave were withered and dead. He hadn’t expected much more, but it was still like being slapped in the face. He can’t hear the music anymore.

Crouching down, he tries to say he’s sorry again, but it sticks in his throat. There’s a little something under the marigolds, and he pulls it out to get a better look, then nearly drops it.

It’s a small bundle of knotweed, tied together with black string and smeared with blood. A binding spell. Black magic.

He spends the rest of the service under the willow tree.

 


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> emetephobia warning for this chapter

_vi._

As it turns out, funerals are great for business.

He’s completely exhausted at the end of each day, adding tiny charms for happiness to everyone’s purchase. He himself decides not to attend, instead staying home and getting high and ignoring the fact that he hasn’t seen Dean in what feels like forever.

Slowly, slowly, things get better, June burning out with a huge thunderstorm and quickly fading into July. Sam tentatively invites him to a Fourth of July bonfire, and he chooses to go, thinking it’ll be good for him.

The party is a nice change, with good food and friends, and he finds himself actually enjoying himself. Jessica still seems a bit off, but with another grilled burger on his plate, he finds himself easily distracted.

Everyone gets sparklers and poppers after the bonfire’s lit, laughing and joking around, waiting for the real show to start. And when it does, it’s amazing; they’re all set off at the fire station, brilliant explosions of red and purple, green, orange, sparkling shimmering white showers. Everyone cheers when it’s over and cracks open more beer, and Castiel, for once, feels normal.

* * *

 

Another week goes by without a sign of a certain winged god, so the day Dean finally does show, the same spotted owl, pecking at his window, he ignores him. If Dean really thinks Cas will let him back into his home with open arms, he’s sorely mistaken.

He finds a way in anyways, a purple hyacinth clutched in his beak. Castiel acts like he’s not there. Dean hops into his line of sight; Castiel turns away. Finally, Dean ends up perching on his shoulder, placing the hyacinth behind Cas’ ear. Castiel ignores him.

He goes so far as to walking to work with the owl on his shoulder and flower in his hair, pretending he doesn’t hear each and every one of Dean’s trills.

He just barely acknowledges his presence when he puts him down on the counter, stepping into the back room to reorganize or something that'll keep him away from Dean.

He wants answers. But he also wants an apology, and a purple hyacinth isn't going to cut it.

Castiel has to commend Dean for the effort he makes in forcing Cas to pay attention to him though, as annoying as it is.

He passes most of the morning pretending there's not a magical owl in his flower shop, so when Sam and Jess stop by, he doesn't really realize there's anything different until Jessica gasps with a, "He's so beautiful!"

"He?" Castiel questions, then turns and catches sight of Dean puffing himself up at Jessica's praise. "Oh, right. Him."

"Where'd you find him? Can I pet him?"

"Sure, if he lets you. And I found him... out in the forest." Castiel turns back to plucking out rotten flowers to hide his smile.

"He's so calm." Sam marvels. "And I, uh," he looks like he's about to start laughing, "I like the flower." He gestures up to his ear.

Castiel snorts. "It's Dean's poor attempt at an apology."

"Dean?" Jessica questions. "The owl?"

There's a loud screech from Dean, but Castiel just shakes his head. "I appreciate the effort," he says loud enough for Dean, sarcasm dripping from his voice, "but there's the little problem of, oh, not speaking bird."

Cas can feel the air shimmer before he hears Sam and Jess' gasps of surprise.

"Actually, it's a dialect specific to owls." Cas turns to see Dean leaning against his counter, the stone thankfully covering up his very naked lower half. His tone is teasing, but his face is serious. "And I'd be able to talk to you properly if you'd just pay attention to me."

Sam and Jessica still look exceptionally confused, but not nearly as much as he had expected. Sam must've told Jess about his magic.

"Is that your... familiar, or something?" Sam asks, and Dean laughs.

"I'm the patron god of your forests, pal."

Sam’s eyes widen comically, but Jessica explodes with laughter.

“Only you, Cas,” she says between giggles, “Only you would befriend a _god_.”

Castiel pauses for a minute, shocked at her sudden outburst, but then blinks and steps back into the backroom, placing the rotten flowers in the compost bin. Dean follows behind him.

“Look, Cas, just let me explain.”

Castiel sighs loudly and looks over at the two standing next to his sunflowers, whispering among themselves.

“After,” he says finally, “After they leave. Until then, I’m still mad at you.”

He hears Dean huff as Cas steps back up to the counter, throwing his gloves to the side.

“How are you, Jessica?” He asks, aiming for small talk. He watches her eyes roam over Dean, landing on his wings and staying there for quite a while, and Cas feels something welling up inside him. Dean’s _his._

“Oh, uh—alright, I guess.” She seems guarded and tense now that her attention’s on Castiel, and he can’t help but wonder if she’s afraid of him. Surely not?

Their radios crackle simultaneously, and both turn to them, listening intently. It’s something about Frank—Cas can’t really tell.

“Sorry, Cas,” Sam says, already heading to the door, “We’ve got to go.”

“Okay. Stay safe,” he calls out, and then looks to Dean; he’s already opening his mouth, about to say something, when the bell above the door jingles, and he quickly shoves Dean under the counter.

Unfortunately, he ends up in very suggestive position and when he looks back up, slowly licking his lips, Cas can feel himself blushing furiously.

Thankfully it’s only Benny, stopping by with a lunch as a thank you for the sunflowers he dropped off the day before.

Benny chuckles when he sees his face. “What’s this? Castiel, are you blushing? Is there a someone under that counter?”

Cas’ mouth drops open and he tries to stutter out a response, but Benny just waves a hand. “I’m just jokin’, brother. Here. Jambalaya and pie, your favorite.”

“I—thank you, Benny. You didn’t have to.”

“Naw, don’t say that. You’ve done a lot for me, least I can do is give you something in return.”

Castiel can smell the mouth-watering food from here, and his stomach rumbles. He feels a wing brush against his thigh, and jerks his leg away. “It looks amazing.”

Benny smiles. “I gotta get back or Jody’ll skin my behind, but you enjoy, Cas.”

Castiel smiles until Benny’s out of the shop, and then he’s hauling Dean to his feet.

“What was that?” he hisses, but Dean’s just smiling, taking a step closer, then another, and then another. Castiel could count the number of freckles on the tip of Dean’s nose, and under his cheeks, and on his lips.

But it’s not right. It doesn’t feel right—he still hasn’t explained himself, and Castiel still sort of wants to stab him in the neck.

“I think you should change back.” He murmurs, and Dean’s face falls minutely, but he still takes a few steps back and shimmers back to an owl, perching on one of the shelves. He watches Cas for the rest of the day.

It’s odd, having Dean back in his cottage. He moves fluidly back into full-size the moment Castiel steps over the threshold, and follows him into the kitchen, where Cas starts up a kettle and turns to face him.

“You said you would explain everything,” he says. “Explain.”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face. “Alright. So, the tree you found. That was me.”

“You.”

“Well, not _me_ , me, but… yeah. See, it's like..." He huffs out a frustrated breath.

"I root," he says. "All the places I tend to, a tree is chosen to root so that my power can get to the whole forest. It makes me vulnerable, but it's close to impossible to tell my tree apart from others. Unless I stay longer, and it grows so that it's recognizable.”

“And that’s what happened?”

“Yeah. I thought it would be best to just leave for a while, but I guess I was wrong. I’m sorry.”

It's sincere, as far as Cas can tell.

Dean steps forward, until he's nearly toe to toe with Cas. "Seriously, Cas," his arms bracket him, leaning on the counter, "I'm sorry. I fucked up."

"I understand." He's speaking quietly again, so close to each other that he can see the light stubble around Dean's jaw, can almost imagine what it’d feel like scraping against his palms—

The kettle goes off.

“Sorry,” he breathes, awkwardly peeling Dean’s arms away from him and pouring his tea.

He takes a bath not long after, with Dean sitting on the floor with his own tea, talking. It’s impossible for Dean to see past the edge of the clawfoot tub, but it still sends a thrill of _something_ through him with the thought that he could.

 

The next morning finds them both out in the garden, the middle of July hot and blinding, his sunhat put to good use.

“Hey, Dean,” Castiel questions, voicing something that’s been on his mind since last night. “Have you ever kissed a person?”

Dean laughs from where he’s sitting like he expected the question, several bees crawling around on his hand. “Mortal? No. Anything else? Pretty much.”

“Anything else?”

Dean looks up, eyes shining with mirth and something a bit more predatory than Cas was expecting. “Oh yeah. You ever had an orgy with several types of nymphs? It’s incredible. They may be small, but they sure are flexible.”

Castiel shudders. He’s sort of regretting asking that question, because hearing about Dean’s sex life is being repeatedly slapped in the face. Those people didn’t deserve it. They didn’t appreciate it or treat him with the reverence Dean deserves, he knows it. He’s jealous.

But then he looks up and Dean’s right there, reaching out and cupping Castiel’s face like he was made of porcelain.

“Is this okay?” he whispers, and Cas can’t believe him.

He kisses him.

It’s like being burned out from the inside with sunshine, chest warming so intensely he’s worried light is pouring out from his mouth. He pulls back, pressing a thumb against Dean’s spit-slick lips, happy to hear Dean is breathing just as heavily as he. He presses their foreheads together, and kisses him again.

The second time is not much different, but this time Cas can feel everything, the pure, clean taste of him, the scrape of stubble against his hands and face, Dean’s eyelashes brushing against his cheek as he tilts his head.

Something brushes against his leg and he looks down suddenly, lips parting with a smack, and it’s daisies. Daisies, growing in a ring around them.

“Sorry,” Dean murmurs, and then Cas is laughing, breathless giggles into Dean’s neck, and he feels like home.

“C’mon.” He says eventually, having stood there for a while, simply in each other’s arms. “I’ve got to open the shop.”

Dean tags along again, as an owl, and people comment on how bright and lively the whole shop looks. Cas can’t stop smiling, or touching his lips, remembering how they felt pressed against Dean’s. He’s kissed plenty of people himself, but none of them have made him feel like he swallowed he sun.

Sam and Jess stop by the cottage a few days later with their dogs, staying for lunch and asking after Dean.

He ends up walking them to the meadow, coming upon the arch only a few feet into the forest. Dean’s lounging nakedly in his nest when they walk through, Bones and Grace barking like crazy and running up to him, sniffing and licking everything in reach.

“Hey, what—Cas, what’d you do? Get these beasts off of me!” He’s sitting up now, trying to push the excited dogs off of his body, but they keep jumping into his lap.

Jessica’s snickering behind him.

“They’re just dogs, Dean. Put on some clothing if it bothers you so much,” Castiel calls out, sitting near him in the overgrown grass and doing absolutely nothing to help.

Dean growls lowly, but soon enough he’s got on the same strip of leather on he was wearing earlier, Sam having finally subdued the dogs.

“So what do you all want?” he snaps, mock-angry with them all for intruding on his private time. Cas plucks a daisy from the ground and tucks it behind Dean’s ear.

“We just came to say hello.” He says.

“And, well, we—” there’s a pointed look from Jessica—” _I_ had a few questions.” Sam says,

Dean sighs, laying his head down near Cas’ lap. “Ask away, Scully.”

Cas and Jess construct flower crowns out of daisies while Dean and Sam talk about the overlap of science and the paranormal, or something. He isn’t really paying attention.

Castiel gives his flower crown to Jess and she gives hers to him, and Sam tries to make one for Bones, failing miserably.

“I’m not a witch like you, Cas,” he says, pouting while they laugh at his tangled up mess.

“Neither is Jessica,” Cas points out, and Sam just rolls his eyes, shoving her playfully.

Dean’s got spots of daisies all in his wings and in his hair, and Cas places yet another one on his nose, which he shakes off.

“So, Dean,” Sam starts, again, and Cas and Jess groan. “Can you actually fly?”

Dean snorts, loudly. “Do these wings look broken to you?” One flops up lazily, displacing all the daisies Castiel had so carefully tucked into his feathers, and he cuffs him on the side of the head.

“Oh,” Sam says dumbly. “Ah, right. Of course.”

“Right is right, you giant sasquatch.” Dean teases. Then he sighs, beads covering his chest glittering as it rises with his lungs. “Isn’t it near dinner for you guys or something?”

Grace barks in agreement.

“Alright, alright,” Jessica giggles, standing and brushing flower petals off her dress. “We’re going.”

“I’ll make sure the meadow drops you off close to the edge of the trees,” Dean calls out, and Sam looks back, slightly confused.

“Thanks?”

“Trust me,” Castiel says, running Dean’s hair through his fingers, “It’s something to appreciate.”

They spend a couple minutes just lounging, Dean’s head actually in Castiel’s lap now.

Dean shudders. "I felt like I was being interrogated."

Cas laughs. "Sam's just curious."

Dean huffs, rolling over and displacing most of the flowers, pulling Castiel down and kissing him.

It's like that same sun he swallowed when Dean first kissed him explodes in his chest, and he ends up smiling too hard to continue kissing.

"Why me?" Castiel asks. "Out of all the people out there, why me?"

"Cause you're incredible, Cas.” Dean says, with so much conviction it’s breathtaking. “There are some people out there that destroy everything they touch, but you breathe life into everything you do."

Cas rolls his eyes, but Dean cups his face with both hands. “You are incredible, Castiel.”

He kisses him to make him stop. Cas pushes Dean back into the nest, crawling on top of him and pulling Dean’s wings over him, hiding them from the rest of the world.

Forget-me-nots spring up around him when he finally catches his breath in the crook of Dean's neck, and he kisses the skin there.

"I'm never going to forget you."

* * *

 

Dean leaves right before August rolls in with humid weather and dragonflies, and Benny commissions a new sign for his shop, the same intricate carved wood Cas uses in his charms.

He chooses to go out and look for wood in the forest, a good tree or the same planks of wood from the man’s house. But every tree he passes is too young, or too thick, or too thin, or too tall.

He keeps walking, continuing deeper and deeper into the forest. He’s not exactly sure what direction he’s going, but he knows a spell to find his way back, so he doesn’t worry.

Until the trees start dying.

Not in front of his eyes, of course, but he seems to have come across a patch of dead woods, blackened, leafless branches on nearly every tree he’s standing near.

Wouldn’t Dean be able to heal this? Better yet, why _hasn’t_ Dean healed this?

The trees are thicker together here, and he can vaguely see something nailed to one of the trees in the distance. He heads towards it, the crunch of dead leaves under his feet louder than it should be.

It’s a board of wood, ancient and weathered looking. And it’s covered in Latin.

Thankfully, his mother had taught it to him from a very young age, but the only thing he could make out was:

_PROPERTY OF_

      _CROWLEY_

  _FUCK OFF_

"The hell are you doing here?" A low, accented voice growls, and Castiel stumbles back, a stoutly man in an all-black suit and a gnarled cane glaring at him.

Ignoring the fact that he’s dressed completely out of season, Cas stutters, “”I-I—who are you?”

“Shit, you really are daft. You see,” he steps forward, “I’ve given you enough chances, I think. I’ve tried to be nice this time. I’ve tried to not get involved. But,” his voice raises, very obviously angry, “you, trespassing on _my property_ , is enough! Nevermind the fact that you’ve been trapezing through my forest willy nilly, doing _whatever_ the hell you like!”

Castiel has no clue what’s going on. “I don’t understand what you’re—”

“Don’t play stupid!” The man shouts. “I won’t let you take my forest! Oh, and you thought things were bad, you just wait, Castiel. You’ll regret the day you _ever_ decided to move to this place! Now, _leave_!”

He slams his cane down and a blast of energy sends Cas flying, just narrowly missing a tree and landing with a painful _thwump_ onto the leaf-covered earth.

By the time he’s able to get up, the man is gone, the only evidence of his ever being there a radius of blown-back leaves exposing the damp ground. He tries to stagger home, but the forest seems to be moving around him, and at least half an hour has passed by the time he finally spots his garden through the branches of a tree. Anna’s standing in the middle, grinning at him, and he can _smell_ her.

The stench of rotten decomposing flesh is so overpowering that he barely makes it inside and to the sink, heaving up everything he’d eaten that day, clutching at his bruised side.

Cas is finally able to catch his breath when Meg curls up around his legs, meowing softly at him. He stumbles about, trying and failing to gather his bearings, and ends up going to bed early, Meg curled up and purring by his side.

He’s feeling no better the next day, head full of fog and stomach stuck in knots, and it takes him half the walk to work to realize it’s a Sunday. He stops for a moment in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to figure out just what the hell is wrong with him. His side aches.

There’s a low hoot and the same spotted owl-Dean-swoops down, dropping a lily into his hands. Cas can’t remember what a lily represents, but he appreciates the gesture well enough.

“Cas!” It’s Sam and Jess, each with a sunflower in their hair. “You missed the farmer’s market!”

He has to take a second to process this. He looks up at the sky, suddenly realizing it’s midday, at the very least. He’s been sleeping away huge chunks of time. He doesn’t know what it means. “It seems I did.”

Sam frowns as they get closer. “You feeling okay?”

“I’m—” he pauses, trying to judge that for himself, “I’m not at my best.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jessica frowns, quartz necklace glinting in the sun. It fills Cas up with something warm to see that she’s finally wearing it. “Were you going home?”

“To see Dean, actually,” he says, realizing he’d already unconsciously decided that was where he’d be spending the rest of his day.

“Oh, cool! We’ll come with you.” Sam says eagerly, and Jessica hits him.

“No, it’s fine, Jess. You’re both welcome to come with me.” Cas is already turning, fingering the lily in his hand and starting the walk back to his cottage.

But he must’ve overshot, because they come up on Dean’s tree before they reach the meadow, larger and thrumming with more energy than Cas could ever comprehend.

“What is this?” It’s Jessica this time, whispering.

Castiel can’t answer. His attention is drawn towards the small patches of yellow fungi crawling up the base of the tree, wet and sickly looking.

Jess reaches a hand out, entranced, and brushes her fingers against the bark of the tree. But then she jerks it back, gasping as if she’d been shocked, and stumbles back a few feet.

There’s a pause, and then Cas says, “Let’s go.”

The meadow, as it turns out, was just playing hard-to-get, and the archway appears only minutes after they set off again, warm and inviting.

“Hey!” It’s Dean, sounding much more excited than he should be to see them.

“Hello, Dean,” he responds, immediately feeling himself soothed over by the calming atmosphere of the meadow. He was going to tell him something, about a man in a dark suit and a patch of trees, but it’s already fading fast from his mind. It’s an ocean of dandelions today, the light white tufts sticking to his pants as he makes his way to where Dean’s laid out on his stomach, wings stretched wide.

Dean pulls him down by the collar of his shirt for a kiss, someone whistling nearby.

“Get a room!” Jess calls.

“I’ve got a nest!” Dean calls back, rolling onto his back and pulling Cas down on top of him.

They spend a while just talking after Cas forces Dean to interact like a normal human being would, wings pulled up around them both, until they reach the topic of alcohol. Dean lights up like a five year old.

“Have you ever tried mead of the gods?” He looks at them all then frowns at himself. “Of course not. Wait here.”

He flashes back into existence less than a minute later, what looks like a jug of sweet-smelling liquid, four gold-plated shot glasses, and something else wrapped in cloth tucked under his arm. He tosses it all into Castiel’s lap before smacking his hands on the ground and sprouting out four large wooden tendrils, weaving themselves together to make a surprisingly flat wood table perfect for sitting height. He _thunks_ the shot glasses in front of them all before laying the cloth package and the jug out in front of them, grinning at their stunned faces.

“God’s ambrosia and god’s mead,” he states, wings quivering with excitement. It’s nearing dinner time and Castiel’s stomach rumbles, and he reaches for the ambrosia. It’s soft and tastes like bread pudding and heaven, and it fills him up incredibly fast.

"Are you sure we're allowed this?" Sam asked, hand hovering over a slice of ambrosia.

"You kidding?" Dean laughs. "If it wasn't for you I wouldn't have brought it."

Sam shrugs and helps himself while Dean pours them all shots, wings twitching eagerly against Castiel's side.

"He's gonna drink us all under the table," Jess groans, looking into her glass curiously.

Dean laughs and takes his shot, everyone else following suit. Castiel wasn't entirely human either, but he said nothing, watching Sam and Jess laugh as they reacted to the mead, a sharp, fruity taste exploding over their tongues.

A few minutes later they were already leaning on each other, giggling. Dean looked over at Cas and waggled his eyebrows, elbowing him, and Cas just snorted, taking his second shot.

"How the hell do you drink this stuff?" Sam asked, hand unsteady as he poured more out of the seemingly infinite jug.

"Well, I'm not, y'know, mortal, so that helps," Dean responds, and Castiel finds himself giggling with them.

He's got a higher alcohol tolerance than most, but Dean's got him beat; he pulled out a larger gold mug from somewhere and started drinking from that, and he’s still only slightly affected. But they're all somewhat tipsy, joking around, and it makes Cas feel better than he has in days.

“Okay, okay,” Sam laughs, a little while later, leaning heavily against Jessica. “Drink if you think Jessica’s got a nice… sunflower.”

They all take a sip, Sam’s sunflower having wilted and been crushed earlier, Jess collapsing into giggles.

“Okay, my turn,” She says, cheeks tinged pink. “Drink if you think Dean’s got nice abs.”

Cas takes a full-on shot, and they all stare Sam down until he finally rolls his eyes, taking a small, small sip, and Dean smirks triumphantly.

A firefly flies lazily near Sam's nose, blinking yellow and softly illuminating his face.

"Don't worry, I'll still love ya' even if you're a little gay." Jess hums and lays her head on Sam's shoulder. "'M drunk.” She giggles. “We should probably go home."

The sun was setting, deep reds and purples streaking across the sky. Sam nods, cheeks bright pink, and grabs a slice of ambrosia for himself. They stand, him and Jess grabbing onto each other and laughing as they stumble around trying to find their balance.

"Don't worry," Dean whispers, leaning far into Castiel's personal space as their voices become hushed after passing through the arch, breath sweet, "I'll make sure they get home safe."

He'd placed a small glass jar onto the table earlier, a small golden flame lighting up their immediate area. But he could still see the flash of fireflies near his closed eye as he turned his head and kissed Dean, tasting the mead on Dean's tongue and feeling his head swim. There was a light, floaty feeling throughout his whole body, and he surged forward with a moan from Dean that reverberated through his own chest.

Cas could feel himself push Dean back, into the nest, could hear the branches they'd used as the table recede, capped jug and glasses falling to the ground.

He ground down and gasped into Dean's mouth as sparks of pleasure flew up his spine, igniting a slow burn under his skin.

But he’s drunk. His hands are sloppy and uncoordinated, his kisses missing their mark—it wasn't right.

"Dean," he breathes, hands gliding over Dean's skin. "Dean, stop."

Dean pulls back immediately, heaving in air he probably doesn't need. "What? Did I hurt you?" He looks worried, the fire they had going burning low.

"No, no, it's just—we're drunk. We shouldn't be doing this."

Dean falls back, relieved. "That's it? Cas, I'm not drunk."

"What?" Castiel definitely is, head heavy and body light.

"Perks of being all-powerful and immortal." Dean grins. "I can sober you up too, you know."

He leans forward and kisses along Castiel's neck, reaching his jaw and _sucking_ , biting and licking, and Cas gasps as he feels the alcohol quickly leave his system.

Dean finally pulls back, eyes hooded. "I coulda just touched you," he leans back in and bites at Cas' earlobe, making him shudder, "but this is more fun."

Dean crawls into Castiel’s lap, mouth moving up to reach parted lips and groaning loudly as he begins to rock back and forth. Cas was beyond words, hands moving up and tangling in Dean’s feathers without another thought as he rocked back into Dean, pleasure racing through his veins and only adding fuel to the fire blazing in his stomach.

But Dean jerks violently with a loud gasp, a litany of _Yes’_ s falling from his tongue as his wings shudder and flap into Castiel’s grasp. He’s hard and his cock is smearing precome all over his stomach, and suddenly Cas has _way_ too many clothes on, everything too hot and too tight.

He peels off his shirt as Dean’s rutting gets more desperate, breathing heavily and sucking hickeys down Castiel’s neck. He grips Cas’ thigh and his pants and briefs disappear, and all Cas can do is laugh breathlessly at his impatience, broken off by a groan at the intense feeling of their cocks sliding together.

He doesn’t remember sex ever feeling like this, like he’s about to break into pieces from the pleasure and suffocate from the hot, tight feeling in his chest, like he’d just swallowed the sun.

“Cas,” Dean’s hands flutter from his face to his chest and back up to his face again, like bird’s wings, his grinding never faltering. “Cas, please, please.”

“What?” He breathes. He’s never seen the god like this, incoherent and needy and oh-so _human_. It’s exhilarating.

“Please,” he whispers, “please, let me ride you.”

A flash of something hot sparks in Castiel at his words, and he finds himself nodding enthusiastically, pulling Dean in for a kiss, a cash of teeth and tongues that sends shivers up his spine.

Dean finally pulls back, flushed and shiny with sweat, the intermittent flash of fireflies lighting up his body in odd spots and glinting off his beads. His eyes are bright and his hand shiny with something when he leans to the side, reaching behind himself, wings shuddering as he closes his eyes. Cas watches the little show with held breath, falling back on his palms.

But he’s only able to hold himself back for so long. He breaks after Dean moans, wings arching, and he grabs Dean and pulls him back into his lap, a thrill shooting through him as he manhandles a _god_ so he’s hovering right above Castiel’s cock, hooded eyes boring into Cas’.

He’s got a hand on Dean’s thigh and a hand on his own cock, slowly stroking until Dean murmurs, “Go ahead. Fuck me.”

He can only stare at Dean as he sinks down, enveloping Cas in a tight, wonderfully slippery heat, wings quivering as he holds himself back.

Cas reaches over and buries his hands in Dean’s wings, feeling him tense up, and breathes back, “Fuck _me_.”

Dean gives some sort of strangled groan and starts moving, rising up and then letting himself drop back down, no filter on the filth spewing from his mouth, moaning with abandon.

“Fuck, fuck, Cas you feel so good, your cock feels so good, please, please Cas fuck me, _fuck_ me,” and it gets Castiel moving, thrusting up to meet Dean, and soon enough they’ve got a rhythm going that only intensifies the fire in his belly. He’s breathless, Dean’s beautiful, so goddamned beautiful, and he’s so fucked.  

He moans loud enough for Cas to feel it in his own chest every time he pulls on Dean’s wings, feathers becoming slippery with his own sweat. He feels it every time he hits Dean’s prostate, a shudder running through his body and the way he gasps, cock blurting precome against his own stomach.

Dean’s bowed over now, nails raking over Castiel’s sides, chanting his name. They’re both close, so close, all rhythm thrown out the window, their thrusts narrowed down to nothing more than glorified grinding, and Cas leans over, biting into the meat of Dean’s neck. He tenses; Cas can feel his own release building up in his belly as Dean clenches around him, stilling and then… vibrating?

Dean’s hand comes up to press Castiel’s head into his skin, blinding him, and then he begins to glow, the first splashes of come hot and wet against Castiel’s skin. He jerks, the light increasing, and becomes incredibly tight; Castiel’s own orgasm sparks and crashes into him suddenly, and all he can do is shake apart as they clutch onto each other, both spiraling high, high, high.

The vibrations cease as Cas slowly comes down, his limbs rendered useless as he heaves in air like a dying man.

“Gods,” Dean whispers, guiding them down into the nest, the cool, soft surface of it a welcome respite to the overwhelming heat of Dean’s body. “You’re incredible, Castiel.”

Cas would reply if he didn’t feel like Dean had just fried his brain. All he could do was kiss somewhere he hopes was near Dean’s mouth, and sink into inky blackness.

The first thing he notices the next morning, besides the sun, were red carnations, everywhere. Dean’s eyes are the next thing, bright, bright green and staring intently at him, something in them that make his heart flutter.

“Mornin’.” He smiles.

The third thing he notices is that he’s naked, and there are carnations pressed against his junk.

“Good morning,” Cas responds, stretching and sitting up. “What time is it?”

“Nine thirty-seven,” Dean says matter-of-factly, wings stretching with him and squashing a whole patch of flowers.

9:37.

He’s late for work.

“I’m late,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “I’m _late_. Dean, where are my clothes?"

He can’t see much through the near-field of carnations that seemed to have erupted overnight, and as thankful as he is for the clean-up job Dean seems to have done while he was asleep, he can’t just go trudging out of the forest nude as the day he was born.

“They’re right here.” Dean’s got them folded in his hand, outstretched, and Cas snatches them up, quickly getting dressed. “Am I allowed to come with you today?”

He’s put himself on display when Cas looks over, a cocky smirk on his face. Castiel rolls his eyes. “If you’d like.”

But then Dean flinches, and focuses on something far-off.

“Dean?”

He shakes his head, refocusing on Cas. “Sorry, can’t come after all. I’ve got—business upstairs to get to.”

“Oh. Will I see you soon?” he asks.

Something in Dean’s stance softens, and he pulls himself into a sitting position. “Of course, Cas. Sooner than you can say ‘Dean is the best god ever.’”

“Dean is the stupidest god ever,” Cas says, smiling when Dean pouts at him.

“Killjoy.”

Castiel leaves the meadow feeling refreshed, but on the walk to work he sees a flash of red hair in the trees, the lingering smell of rotting meat like a punch to the gut. The headache returns as he steps behind his building to water his garden, no bees in sight, and he can’t help but think of Anna as he picks the rotten flowers from his stock.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **LILY: Orange**
> 
> _Orange lilies tend to mean or imply_ passion _. They're best in loud bouquets, passionate ones, or ones a florist wants to make a statement with._
> 
> (104) 
> 
>  
> 
> **DAISIES**
> 
> _Daisies can mean purity, innocence, loyal love, beauty, patience and simplicity. Daisy variations come in a number of vibrant colors, and sending them is the perfect way to brighten someone’s day._
> 
>  
> 
> **HYACINTH: Purple**
> 
> _Purple hyacinths usually mean sorrow, or "I'm sorry." When you receive a purple hyacinth from your best friend or loved one with whom you just had a fight, consider the flower as their way of saying “I am Sorry, Please Forgive Me.”_
> 
>  
> 
> (79)


	7. vii

_vii._

The headache doesn’t ever seem to go away, only peaking and falling, and he finds himself casting preserving spells more and more, flowers dying much more quickly than they should. Herbal drinks seem to be the only things helping, flower-infused water with small crystals beginning to fill up his fridge.

August leaves them with a bang, a loud, wet summer storm blowing over trees and pulling out small patches of his garden. They clean up just fine, but Cas is plagued with—probably stupid—worries about Dean, his last visit being in the last week of August. The only thing letting him know he’s still around was a bouquet of magnolias left on his back porch.

Cas knows he said he’d had business, knows he’s an ever-powerful god with duties and responsibilities, but something feels… wrong. He can’t explain it, can’t put his finger on it, but it’s there.

He attributes his headaches and growing list of bodily aches and pains to the changing of the seasons, temperatures dipping steadily as they fall into September. He’s never done well with cold weather, and the fact that he’s out of the city will never change that.

Jess catches him walking home one night, inviting him over for dinner. She says she has something to ask, and he takes a moment to decide. He has to squint to see her aura in the fading light, to see the deep black tendrils crawling around the edges. He realizes, with a start, that his, once bright with swirls of white and green and purple, is faded, the white having dulled down to a light gray.

He pushes his worries aside, and accepts.

She puts pasta on the stove and tells him Claire’s at a friend’s house. They talk for a while, menial things, and the pasta is warm and delicious.

But she’s been beating around the bush all night, and Castiel’s sick of it.

“So, what did you want to ask me about?” He pushes his bowl away, and she seems to tense.

“You’re going to think I’m terrible,” she starts, taking both their bowls and placing them in the sink. Castiel catches a flash of red out of the corner of his eye and looks, at Anna, standing with her face nearly pressed up against the back door. Jessica turns with a glass of water and gasps, glass falling from her fingers and shattering as she stares at the back door, and Castiel feels his heart pound against his ribs.

“You see her?” he asks urgently, “You see her too?”

“What?” she says, terrified face white as a sheet. Then, she blinks, and goes blank. “Who?’

“Anna—the-the woman in the window…” Anna’s gone, black night the only thing he can see.

“There’s no one there, Castiel.” She’s frowning now, at him. “Are you feeling okay?”

There’s something wrong. Something terribly, terribly wrong.

“I’m fine,” he responds.

“Oh, crap,” she says, noticing the mess on the ground. “Sorry, I can’t believe I did that.”

She grabs the broom from the closet, starting to clean up, and Castiel can’t take how quiet it is.

“Jessica, what did you want to ask me?”

“Hmm?” She looks up from her sweeping, already mopped up the water. “Oh, right.” Her jaw twitches like she wants to say something.

“So—” she says finally, “what do you think of… me and Sam? Together, I mean.”

 _That’s_ what she had him over for dinner for? There’s no way.

“You’re always together. You’d make a wonderful couple,” he tells her, but it doesn’t feel like it’s what he should be saying, like it was what she truly wanted to ask.

She blushes, finishing her sweeping. “We’ve been friends since we were in diapers. I’ve tried—I’ve tried to ask him out, once or twice, but it’s just never… been the right time.”

“I think he’s just as caught on you as you are on him. Don’t worry about it. I think you’ll both find your time soon enough,” Castiel answers truthfully.

“Thanks, Cas.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

* * *

 

Dean shows up a few days later, sitting at his desk and flipping through his books. Anna’s journal is beside him, and like a black hole, it seems to suck up all the light around it, drawing Cas towards it.

He kisses Dean on the cheek as a hello, and like a lovesick puppy, Dean follows him into the kitchen.

“You’ve been gone a while,” Cas starts.

“I had business,” Dean replies.

“What kind of business?” Castiel asks, hoping he’ll at least get some sort of answer.

“I can’t really tell your mortal ass, now can I?” Dean says, wrapping his arms around Castiel’s waist. “Your ears will bleed and your dick will fall off.”

“Why just my dick?” Cas smiles, feeling Dean’s grin on the back of his neck.

“’Cause it’s the only part of you I was thinking about when I said that,” Dean laughs.

Castiel laughs with him, lifting the kettle to pour his tea, but his arm shakes and the kettle slips from his grip, falling to the floor and spilling boiling hot water everywhere. Dean pulls him out of the way just in time, water spilling over his skin.

“Jesus, you okay?” he asks, everything suddenly back in place. Cas can only nod, all his limbs shaking now, a strange pain behind his eyes.

“C’mon,” Dean says, pressing him back into his bedroom. Cas doesn’t crawl into bed so much as collapse into it, reaching into his side table for the packed pipe he knows is there.

Dean pads in seconds later, placing a mug of tea on his nightstand and crawling in with him. He hands Anna’s journal to him, almost like he could read his mind.

He’s read through most of it, only a few pages left. Most of them are normal, but there’s a few, closest to the end, that are no more than senseless scribbles.

The very last entry leaves a pit in his chest.

          _I have accepted this. There is no o ther option. he will not STOP.  
_ _This will be the last entry. As soon as my affairs are in order he will get what he wants.  
_ _I’m sorry, Castiel. Be smart and be safe_

There’s a ripped edge right behind it, the page Cas suspects was ripped out and pasted to the front. He doesn’t know who she’s talking about.

He sets the journal aside and lights up, passing the pipe to Dean. The pot fills his lungs and his mind, and he’s drifting off without another thought.

Of course, Anna can’t have that. He wakes to her figure staring at him through his window, the stench of her permeating his room.

He’s up and out of the bed as quick as he can, the smell following him into the bathroom where he throws up tea, the only thing he’d had that day.

Dean’s right there only moments later, soothing him as he dry heaves, nothing left in his twisting, spasming stomach.

“Cas,” Dean’s worried, he can hear it, “Cas, what’s wrong?”

Castiel can’t answer. Her smell is still all around him.

Dean brings him ambrosia, later, the only thing he can keep down. He’s got strange deep-orange markings all along his legs that look suspiciously like bruises, but he says they’re nothing when Cas questions him.

Castiel’s tired. He’s so tired, a bone-deep fatigue running through him for no reason he can discern. He feels better around Dean, but that’s it, and even Dean’s running a bit ragged now, the second day he’s done nothing but take care of Cas.

He ignores Castiel’s protests to leave him on his own, that he’s okay, that it’s probably just the flu, minus the fever. The third day Cas calls Sam to hang a sign on his shop telling people he was sick, and he spends most of it tending to his garden under Dean’s watchful eye. He has another dinner of ambrosia and herbal water, and falls asleep with Dean by his side.

The fourth day, he finally talks Dean into leaving him be. Dean actually looks _tired_ , and Castiel’s getting cabin fever, a steady diet of nothing but snack food for the gods restoring some of his energy. Dean gives him a kiss goodbye, and then they’re going their separate ways.

His day is uneventful save for Benny stopping by with a slice of pumpkin pie, which Castiel gladly enjoys. The flowers look dimmer, though, some of their vibrancy lost, and Cas attributes it to the gray late-September skies.

He starts feeling worse, though, when he gets home, achy and shaking and eating a meager dinner of bread and honey. His head feels heavy and he goes to bed early, suddenly inexplicably exhausted.

He passes the rest of the next day in a fog unable to concentrate much on anything, and is thankful for the lack of business. Jo’s the only person he sees all day, coming in for flowers to liven up their apartment.

“You look like shit, Cas,” is the first thing she says to him.

“I know,” he says. “How can I help you, Jo?”

“Just a… happy bouquet, if you can,” she says, looking around.

Cas nods and puts it together, last of the sunflowers and a few other flowers, tied together with yellow ribbon and wrapped in tissue. He takes it into the back room for a spell, but the orange glow barely shows before flickering out, and a flash of fear cuts through him. He tries again but gets the same result; his magic isn’t working.

That can’t be right. His magic has never failed him, even while sick. He pulls himself together and tries one last time, one last push, and it works. But then he’s stumbling and light-headed and falls to the side, a simple charm making him feel like he’d just brought an entire tree back to life.

He composes himself and steps back out to Jo, showing her the bouquet for her approval.

“You sure you don’t need me to call someone for you?” she asks while paying, shooting him worried glances. “You really don’t look so good, Cas.”

He shakes his head, then regrets it; the entire room spins. “I’m fine,” he says, but it sounds feeble even to his own ears.

“Should I call someone to close up for you?” She’s still looking worried, and he waves her off.

“Don’t. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay. See you around, Cas.” She’s still looking sceptic as she turns and walks out the door.

He ends up taking her advice, though, closing early and trudging home. He takes a bath and goes straight to bed, waking sometime around midday the next day shivering despite the blankets piled onto his bed.

He makes it to the shop, but Benny stops by not much later and tell him he should go home; this time he listens, hanging a sign up so that people could list their orders. Though, there’s the problem that the flowers are growing slower than before, clipped blooming flowers taking longer to heal and grow back than they used to. He ignores the fact that his magic keeps things blooming so long and the failure of this means something bad, and goes home, and back to bed.

He spends the next couple days drifting in and out of sleep, getting up only to eat or relieve himself. He’s so, so incredibly tired, and his head spins every time he tries to exert any extra energy. He tells himself it’s the flu, and goes back to sleep.

Until he’s woken, one day, by sharp, stabbing pain in his abdomen. All he can do is curl up and wait for it to pass, eventually getting up when it dies down, effectively awake. Cas makes himself a breakfast and goes out to check the plants—they’re drooping from lack of water. Shit.

He pulls out the hose and tries not to fall into anything, watering his garden to the best of his ability. He tries a reviving spell but his vision wavers the minute he begins, so he goes back inside. There’s a note next to his front door, obviously haven been slid under. It’s from Sam, saying he’ll be stopping by later for lunch.

As twisted up as his stomach is, it still grumbles as the the thought of lunch. He’s not sure what time it is, so he’s surprised at the knock on his door less than an hour later.

His head’s still full of fog, and he and Sam chat a bit, but he can’t really remember what they spoke about. He remembers Bones, and he remembers going back to bed, and now he’s awake, and it’s dark, and he’s sweating through his clothes.

He pulls everything off and goes to get food, pulling some of Benny’s leftover pie from the fridge and eating what’s left of it. But he starts shivering as soon as he’s done, so, so cold, and pulls on a hoodie and pants.

He’s debating whether to start a fire when sudden pain racks through him, and he rushes to the kitchen sink, violently ill, losing everything he’d eaten. Meg meows at him from where she’s twisted around his ankles when he’s done rinsing his mouth out with water, and he has a hard time starting a fire with his hands shaking as badly as they are.

He wakes on the couch and goes for another bath, slipping on more protective stones, and it helps, slightly. The fog clears enough for him to concentrate enough on a book and to tend to his garden, but he still passes out sometime around midday.

He has a fever dream of being caught in brambles, red hair like fire setting the forest aflame and burning him with it. Cas wakes screaming, twisted in his blankets and gasping for air.

It takes him a few seconds and the thumping of his heart to die down enough to realize the loud banging isn’t his blood rushing through his veins loud enough to be heard, but Sam, calling his name.

He scrambles out of bed and nearly collapses, legs wobbling underneath him and his balance almost nonexistent.

“I’m coming!” he shouts, voice hoarse with disuse. He opens the door to Sam’s worried face, Anna standing right behind him, and he can _smell_ her, death and rotting meat, and he stumbles out of the doorway, pushing past Sam, dry heaving on his knees in the yellow grass.

“Cas, you okay?” It’s Sam, hand on his shoulder.

“I’m—” he starts, but then wracked by another heave, “I’ll be fine.”

“Cas, do you even know what day it is?” Sam asks, helping him up by the arm.

Castiel doesn’t even know why Sam’s asking this, but doesn’t know what day it is, exactly.

“The first?” He says, staggering inside.

“It’s Saturday, the eighth of October, Cas.” Sam responds, obvious concern in his voice.

The eighth? There’s no way. Castiel tries to count his days, but he just ends up confused. He has no idea how long he’s been sick.

“Do you want some food, or something?” Sam heads into his kitchen, frowning at the state of his fridge and pantries.

Cas’ stomach makes an unhappy twist, and he declines.

“Look, just let me take you to a doctor,” Sam says, finally turning back to him.

“I don’t need a doctor.” Cas scoffs. “I’m—”

“Fine, I know.” Sam’s face sours. “I just want to help you. You’re obviously not okay.”

“I don’t need a doctor,” Cas repeats, staring Sam down.

“Fine.” He breaks, putting his palms out. “Fine. But at least let me help you.”

“You can help me by watering my garden,” he says, falling into the couch.

 

He must’ve drifted off somewhere, because Sam’s shaking him awake, sun low in the sky.

“I changed your sheets,” he says, but Cas can’t make out much more than that. He stumbles to his room with Sam guiding him, falls face first into his bed, and passes out.

He’s not sure what day, what time it is when he next wakes up, needing to piss. He can barely stand, wandering out back to piss because he doesn’t trust his balance in the bathroom.

He’s hanging onto one of the wooden posts on his back porch when he sees it. First it’s just a trick of the light as he’s tucking himself back in, but he looks closer. It’s something metal, buried in his yard. He doesn’t remember burying anything metal in his yard.

He lets go of the post and staggers over to the object, falling to his knees. It’s a lid, to something, half sticking out of the dirt.

A spike of pain travels through him when he attempts to touch it, and wraps his hands in his hoodie sleeves, digging around it. It doesn’t take long, the shape of a jar becoming clear.

He pulls it out of the ground, and immediately drops it.

It’s a curse jar.

Suddenly, his symptoms make sense. He wraps the one he has in his hoodie, and stumbles about, looking for another one. He knows there’s another one, finds it just before the trees, and wraps that up in his hoodie too, scouring the front yard.

There’s one other a few feet from his front yard, and then he knows he’s found them all. He can’t do any magic to get rid of them, feeling his remaining energy being sapped by the jars by being so close to them, so he does the only thing he can think of: he calls Dean.

He hears Dean flutter in behind him, dark bruises still on his legs.

“Destroy these,” he groans.

Dean leans over and places a hand atop the jars, and a bright, white light begins; Cas is forced to close his eyes as the light intensifies and something shatters. He feels the blast of pure energy against his skin, feels the curse lift from his body, feels energized and whole again.

When the light dies down and he opens his eyes, all that’s left of the jars is a small spattering of glass and a blast radius of ash.

“Are you okay?” Dean asks as he gets to his feet.

“Much better, thanks to you,” he replies, pulling Dean in for a kiss.

He feels the fog dissipate, but all the other symptoms remain, slowly getting better. Dean hangs around a while, lazing around on his couch and feeding Cas ambrosia.

It’s bugging him that he doesn't know who put the curse jar there. Something's nagging at the back of his mind, something about trees, and a hostile man in a black suit; but he can't remember much else, and the thought fades as fast as it enters.

He'd really like to know who put the jars there. He nearly died, and they were made with blood magic. There was personal intent to kill, and he didn't know who did it.

He leaves Dean passed out on his couch, stepping out to the shop. The paper he'd posted on the front of the shop was littered with orders and get well's, and it makes him smile to know people cared.

He’s still not at his best, but he takes the paper, hoping his magic will recover fast enough to get started on orders tonight.

The air was an appropriate October cold, sharp and biting, but so, so refreshing, and he decides to take a walk around town to rejuvenate himself.

The trees are already changing color, reds and oranges slowly seeping into the deep greens and browns. Few plants were actually blooming anymore, but they were still alive, adding splashes of color to brown-grassed lots and uncared-for yards.

He turns onto Sam’s street, expecting another empty road for his solitary walk; most residents seemed to dislike the cold, and he shared the sentiment.

But Sam’s in his yard, trying to get Bones to sit still enough to tie something to his collar. He can see Bones run around barking, Sam chasing him as he gets closer.

“Dammit, Bones, sit!” Sam yells, but Bones just barks, running out of his reach. Cas catches him before he can run out into the street, grabbing ahold of his collar and pulling him back to Sam, noticing the folded up piece of paper in his hands.

“Hello, Sam.” He smiles, pulling the dog back into Sam’s reach.

“Hey, Cas. Thanks,” he sighs, holding the dog in place. “Glad to see you look better.” He smiles back at him.

“Yes. Dean helped me.” He pauses as he sees Sam carefully tie the slip of paper to Bone’s collar, the dog tense. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, uh.” Sam’s definitely blushing now, cheeks tinged with pink that’s not from the cold. “It’s a, uh—” He looks up at Cas, and seems to decide on telling the truth. “It’s a note, for Jess. Asking her out.”

“Through your dog? Why not just in person? She won’t turn you down, Sam, trust me.”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just—” He smiles nostalgically, patting Bones and standing, keeping a hold on his collar, “It’s how me and Jess used to communicate when we were younger. Sending notes with our dogs. I don’t know, it just seemed right.”

“Oh,” Cas says, the sudden image of an adolescent Sam and Jessica sending secret notes tied to their dog’s collars undeniably cute. “I’m sure she’ll love it.”

Sam chuckles. “She better.” He leans over and faces Bones, saying, _“Jessica,”_ and letting him go, and the dog shoots off into the backyard of the next house.

Cas takes it as his cue to go, waving goodbye and wishing Sam good luck. The rest of his walk is uneventful and he returns home, burning a stick of sage to clear the house of any residual bad magic the curse might have left. Dean’s gone, probably in the meadow, and he leaves the sage in a dish in his front room, stepping out to go find him.

The forest even seems to be changing with the season, nearly every tree touched with a swirl of red or yellow or orange, only a few evergreens still completely healthy and lively looking.

He finds the meadow soon enough, the trees surrounding it also touched by the cold weather. Dean’s in his nest, dead asleep, or whatever it is he does.

“Dean!” he calls out, but Dean doesn’t respond. That’s odd. Dean always responds.

He calls his name again, stepping closer. There are more dark bruises all over his chest and legs, and he’s barely stirring. Cas crouches down, worried now, and shakes his arm.

“Cas?”

Castiel breathes a sigh of relief as he sits up, but tumbles back into his nest, completely lethargic and out of it. There’s fear thrumming sharp under Cas’ skin now. Dean’s a god. There’s no reason for him to act like this.

“Hmm, how’re ‘ya?” His words are slurred and his eyes keep slipping closed, and it scares Cas like nothing else.

“I’m good, Dean. How are you?” he asks, trying to stay calm. There’s probably a rational explanation for it.

Like how there’s probably a rational explanation for why Bones comes running into the meadow, note still attached to his collar, barking at Castiel.

“‘M… tired.” He says, eyes slipping closed again. “‘S ‘n odd feelin’.”

Bones is trying to run off again, barking at him, and Cas looks from the dog to Dean and back at the dog again.

“Dean, I’ll be right back, okay?” he says, standing. “Try to stay awake for me.”

Bones trots along like a well behaved dog on the way to Sam’s, and Cas can’t help but frown at him. He doesn’t seem like the type of dog to randomly disobey orders.

He steps up Sam’s porch and knocks on the door, his face going from apprehensively excited to confused.

“Cas? What are you doing here?”

“Your dog found his way into the meadow and wouldn’t stop barking until I brought him back here. The note’s still on him.”

Sam steps out, screen door screeching and slamming shut behind him. He’s frowning, looking at Bone’s face. “He’s never done that before.”

He tells Bones, _“Jessica,”_ again, watching as the dog barks and runs off, running right back to them moments later.

“That’s weird.” Sam says, stepping off the porch and walking over to Jessica’s, Cas trailing behind. Something about this doesn’t seem right.

“Do you know if she’s home?” Cas calls out, watching Sam step onto her porch and knock on the door. It swings right open, completely unlocked.

“She should be,” Sam says, cautiously entering.

He yells out Jessica’s name, then Claire’s. There’s no response, and his voice echoes through the empty house.

“You call her, I’ll call Bobby,” Sam tells him, pulling out his phone and carefully stepping into the kitchen, looking around.

Castile follows his example, dialing Jessica’s number. He’s standing by the stairs, and can hear a faint ringing from upstairs—perhaps she’d just fallen asleep.

He climbs the stairs but the ringing isn’t coming from either of their rooms. There’s a small doorway at the end of the hall standing ajar, a set of stairs leading up again. The ringing stops as soon as he steps inside.

They’re steps to the attic, he knows this, but he can’t help the feeling of dread that fills him with each footfall.

The first thing that hits him is the smell, surprisingly. The second thing is the _feeling_. Dark magic. Black magic. It’s permeating the small space, and he finds Jessica’s phone right before a table with an altar set up, the _stench_ of the ingredients in the bowl overpowering him.

There’s an old, old spellbook sitting on the floor, flipped open, and he recognizes it instantly, having used it since he was a child. He’d known some of the marked spells were dangerous, dark, that the author was questionable, but he’d never in his life believed it contained black magic.

He _knew_ Jess had kept it for herself. What in the _world_ had Jessica gotten herself into?

Sam’s calling for him, and he rushes downstairs, not wanting to spend another minute in that attic. Sam’s worried face is the first thing he sees, twisted and biting his fingernails.

“Bobby hasn’t seen her,” he says. “Cas, I have a bad feeling about this.”

“What was the last thing she said to you?” Castiel asks, ignoring all politeness.

“Uh, that she was just stressed about Claire’s behavior, that she wanted to get her to a real therapist… why?”

“Someone’s been practicing black magic in her attic. I didn’t see what spell it was, but I found her phone.” He hands it over, and Sam’s expression changes to one of horror. “It could be possible it was Claire. I don’t know. But we need to find her.”

Sam nods, then hesitates. “Where the hell do we start?”

“Dean,” Cas says, knowing it’s their only option. The police will never find her if she doesn’t want to be found, especially if she’s been practicing as long as Castiel suspects.

“Okay, then let’s go.” Sam’s already out of the door, and Cas follows.

But Dean’s no better when they get there, slurring his words and unable to respond the way the need him to.

Castiel has to take a step back, running both his hands through his hair.

“Cas, what the hell is going on?” Sam asks him, kneeling near Dean’s prone form.

“I don’t know,” he responds. A sense of urgency is building in his gut, and he has no idea what to do. “I don’t know.”

He closes his eyes and focuses. He needs a spell, something that’ll help them locate Jessica without Dean’s help. He doesn’t have a map with him, doesn’t have time, doesn’t even know where the meadow is located, seeing as it exists on a separate plane of reality like Dean told him.

It comes to him as he’s staring at the dirt, which would be odd if the spell didn’t involve dirt.

“I have an idea,” he says, picking Dean up by the arm and slinging it over his shoulders, supporting half his weight. Sam gets the idea and helps, and they stumble out of the meadow, Dean hanging limp between them.

He stoops to gather a pile of dirt in his hand, whispering his spell and focusing his thoughts on Jessica, then blowing. Half the earth blows from his hand, but the rest remains, having formed an arrow in the direction they should be going.

It takes much longer than he wants, having to stop and blow on the dirt in his palm to make sure they’re still going in the right direction. Dean seems to get heavier with every minute, and even Sam begins struggling after a time.

But they’re getting close, he can sense it. He pushes on, finally, finally coming across a patch of deadened, leafless trees. But they’re in the wrong place. He can vaguely remember another patch of dead, blackened trees, and they weren’t next to Dean’s tree, the raw energy humming through the ground.

They make it a bit further, finally coming upon the tree, thick as three people side to side and covered in sickly yellow fungus, it’s tendrils growing up from the surrounding dirt and extending up the trunk, much more widespread than Cas last remembered.

There’s murmuring coming from the other side of the tree, and Dean groans, completely sagging to the ground, pulling both Cas and Sam with him. They set him down carefully, quietly, but the murmurings stopped, and Castiel’s heart thumps double-time.

Cas refuses to let Dean lie there, and pulls him up, inching around the trunk, seeing a man come into view and—it’s him.

Crowley, the same man from earlier, the suit and smug face all the same. Jessica’s on the ground behind him, white sundress and sweater covered in dirt and possibly blood; she’s chained at the wrists, Claire’s unconscious form behind her, chained together. They both look pale and dirty and Crowley’s smiling at him like he was expecting them, an axe in place of his cane.

“Well, well well. What do we have here, hm? The boys all shuffling in for the show?” He’s grinning now, and Jess looks terrified at their appearance. Sam looks more enraged than Cas has ever seen, hand on the gun tucked into the back of his jeans. He must have grabbed it before they headed out.

“Wonderful! You can sit and watch your friends die.” He hefts the axe into his hands, and Sam pulls the gun. Crowley’s expression doesn’t change.

“Let them go, or I swear I’ll shoot,” Sam says, cold steel in his voice. Jessica’s shaking her head violently, but Sam seems to be paying no attention.

“What, you think you’ll hurt me?” Crowley laughs, and there’s a _BANG_ as the gun goes off and he stumbles back, shocked. But the wound in his shoulder doesn’t bleed; in fact, he simply laughs again, putting the axe down like he was never shot. “Boy, you’re really gonna have to try harder than that. I’ve been around for _centuries_.  Petty guns will not harm me.”

He swipes his hand through the air, and Sam goes flying, gun falling to the ground as he crashes into a tree and them down to the ground with a sickening _thump_ , form limp as debris rains down on him.

Crowley steps forward with Castiel frozen to the spot, and picks up the gun, murmuring to himself. “The lack of craftsmanship these days is god-awful.” He throws it to the side.

“Please,” he finds himself saying, not thinking about why Sam hasn’t gotten up yet. “Please, just let Jess and Claire go. They haven’t done anything.” Besides black magic, but there’s no proof they’ve hurt people.

Crowley actually laughs out loud, yanking on the chains connected to Jessica’s wrists. They look like they’ve been rubbing her raw, skin torn and bleeding. “They haven’t _done anything_? Bluebird, they’ve been doing everything I’ve asked of them.” Jess has tears slipping down her face now, shaking her head harder. “They’ve been doing black magic because I asked them to. They sent that spell that killed your plants. They’ve sacrificed for me. She knew about you, she knew about Dean, much before any of you. Castiel, Jessica and Claire Moore have done much more than _nothing_.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Castiel, he was going to hurt Claire, he had Claire and I had to keep her safe, I’m sorry, I’m—”

“Enough!” Crowley shouts, pushing her aside. “You.” He points at Cas with the axe in his hand, eyes shining brightly, “I’ve had _enough_ of you trying to take what isn’t yours. I’ve been here centuries longer than _any_ of you! This is _my_ forest, I won’t tolerate meddling in things that aren’t yours!”

He hefts the axe, and Cas has a split moment of panic, watching the axe swing towards Dean’s tree—

And then it hits with an audible _THUNK_ , and Dean screams, inhumanly; a large gash appears over his side, oozing pearlescent blood. It’s glowing faintly, and Dean curls up as the tree too begins to leak thick, black-red liquid.

Castiel doesn’t know what to do—he’s stuck in his place, Sam’s unconscious body still lying in place, and there’s no way he’ll ever help them if he ends up in the same position. He falls to his knees as the blood continues to pour from Dean, attempting to slow it by applying pressure, but it squeezes out between his fingers. He’s panicking, he can feel it, something squeezing his lungs and constricting around his heart so that all he can do is watch.

“Do you know how much I had to go through to get past this tree’s defenses?” Crowley shouts, swinging the axe again, shouting over Dean’s piercing screams. “It’s near impenetrable! I went through years of work to find something, anything that could sneak past it. And I did. And you have no,” _thunk_ , scream, “idea,” _thunk_ , scream, “how satisfying this is. Years upon _years_ of dealing with that  _arse,_ threats and ignorance,”  _thunk,_ scream, "finally getting a  _sliver,_ of freedom, and now I get to watch him  _die."_ Crowley laughs, pausing in his attack. "Finally!"

Castiel doesn't have time to think about how Dean was _also_ keeping secrets about Crowley from him. There’s several gashes covering Dean’s legs and chest, now, and he’s trembling; Castiel catches Jessica’s gaze while Crowley stands there, admiring the black liquid running down the sides of the tree like blood.

She jerks her head, gesturing to the spellbook and ingredients near her feet that Crowley had left there. _There's something he could do._

He waits a couple seconds until Crowley’s back is to him, heart thumping loud enough he’s worried the other witch can hear it, and lunges for Jess.

He’s thrown back in mid air, smacking into a tree and blacking out.

When he comes to, he’s convinced he’s died and gone to purgatory. The sun is setting, casting deep shadows through the forest, and Anna’s slowly gliding past him, fingers trailing over the bark of any tree in her reach, small flames licking up from where she’s touched, quickly growing and consuming anything in their path. She’s not the only one; there are several figures floating in all directions, flames licking up wherever their skin touches.

He catches Crowley, grinning as the smoke slowly begins to rise, black and choking with Dean shivering on the ground, tracks of his own blood covering his body.

The flames inch closer to his face, the heat of it very, very real, and he watches as Crowley turns, raising his arms to the sky and laughing.

Crowley still thinks he’s passed out, he realizes, and he quickly and quietly crawls over to Jessica, only a few feet away from where he’d fallen.

“Here,” she whispers, passing the spellbook to him, her words barely audible over the crackling of the growing fire. “The book, it has a mirroring spell—It’ll turn everything Crowley has ever done back on him. It’s the only thing I know will work on a necromancer like him.”

“I know,” Cas whispers back, collecting Crowley’s ingredients in his arms.

“Cas—I’m sorry—” But he’s already on his feet, running, Crowley’s eyes on the back of his head.

The smoke clogs up his nose, leaves of trees smacking him in the face as he runs, until the sound of the fire is far-off. He falls, heaving in air, and drops the book open, running down the list of ingredients and groaning lowly.

It’s an herbal spell, and the only place he can find all the ingredients in one place is in the cottage, with half the plants growing in non-foresty locations. He doesn’t have time to go home. Already, he can head Dean’s screams starting up again, faintly, and adrenaline courses through his system.

Agrimony, though, he can find that. He saw a patch of it not far behind. He pulls out a patch, not caring about precision, and throws it in the wooden bowl. The flames are growing closer, he can feel it, feel the heat and the smoke and the screaming, a piece of him screaming in agony with Dean.

The last two, betony and mandrake, don’t grown here. He has no seeds, no roots, nothing to get started; he’s going to have to attempt something very, very risky.

Cas places both palms down on the earth, Dean’s blood still coating his hands and helping him focus his magic. His everything goes into growing betony, seeing it push through the dirt and unfurling into a fully grown plant, Dean’s scream pushing him forward—he can’t let him die, he _can’t_. He’s lightheaded by the end of it, and most of the blood that had helped him was wiped from his palms.

He pulls the parts he needs from the plant and tosses the rest to the side, focusing, again on growing mandrake.

But nothing’s giving—he pushes down on the earth with a frustrated growl, and focuses, again, using Dean to push him forward, past the light headed feeling, past the tingling in his limbs, the cold, pullpushpull feeling in his skull, and nearly cries when he feels it break through the earth, growing, growing, growing, and finally, finally, done.

He nearly faints when he pulls away, smoke reaching his eyes and nose and stinging down his throat. Cas pulls off his sweater, already sweating, and pulls the mandrake from the ground, careful of it’s toxic surface. He takes the bulb and squeezes, feeling it dry out with an extra burst of his magic, and throws it in the bowl along with an extra leaf, standing, and running back into the flames, letting Dean’s slowly-fading hoarse screams lead him back.

He makes it to Dean but he can barely see, thick, billowing black smoke all around him.

_A reflective surface._

Crowley’s chopping away with abandon, blood pouring thick from Dean’s body. He places the bowl under one of the gashes, watching it fill up, and runs his dirtied hand over Dean’s shoulder, trying his best to soothe him, but Dean’s gone somewhere else, jerking with each hit but only screaming intermittently.

The bowl fills up and as much as it terrifies him, he only has one shot to bring Crowley down, and this is it. All he needs is hair.

He stands, careful not to slip in the blood-damp earth around the god, and judges how well his chances are.

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s probably most likely going to die sometime in the very near future, vision already swimming, but he has to try. Goddamnit, he can’t let Dean slip from him the same as Anna.

Sam’s rousing, though, coughing violently, and Jess calls out to him—Crowley looks over, distracted, and Cas takes his shot.

For an incredibly powerful necromancer, he’s surprisingly easy to tackle, Cas gets a hand in his hair before he can react, but it’s not soon enough; Crowley recovers, and punches him in the jaw.

Castiel’s never been punched before, the shooting pain surprising him enough that Crowley has a chance to get on top of him, raining blow after blow before Cas gets in a good hold, rolling them.

He barely recognizes the pain in his face and in his knuckles, fighting the urge to cough up his lungs as he gets a hand in Crowley’s hair, and _yanks_ , getting a fistfull of hair.

He scrambles back, ignoring how the sun smark on Dean’s back is glowing a bright white, dumping the hair into the bowl and breaking a burning branch off the nearest tree, holding it over the bowl and spitting blood from his split lip onto the ground.

“No,” Crowley starts, face illuminated red by the fire, absolutely livid. “ _No—_ ”

“Diabolus, et scelera atque peccata nos reflecti ad vos.” Castiel starts, and Sam and Jess watch on as Crowley struggles in place, the fire dangerously close to the ingredients of the spell. “Firmetur manus male cecidit, hi reflecti est et disperdat eos. Peccator, et mittam te in inferno vestrorum!”

 _“No!”_ Crowley screams, manic light in his eye, skin shining with sweat.

“Cogito, et expellam te! Peccator ego tollam vos! _Peccator ego tollam vos_!” Castiel shouts, letting the fire touch, and the whole thing lights up, a huge, red flame shooting up from the middle as Crowley screams at him, stumbling back and picking up his axe again. Castiel watches, horrified, as he begins chopping away with renewed vigor, Dean screaming and arching, another gash appearing and glowing bright white.

It didn’t work. The spell didn’t work.

Castiel drops the blackened bowl, falling to his knees and pulling Dean's shivering, glowing form into his lap, warm blood instantly soaking through his clothes at an alarming rate.

So this is what death felt like. Hot, burning heat and choking black smoke. He strokes a hand through Dean’s hair, and closes his eyes.

Until he hears a scream that doesn’t belong to any of them.

He opens his eyes to see Crowley staring at his shaking hands, screaming into the night again, and falling to his knees.

Castiel watches, shocked, as blood begins to pour from the necromancer’s eyes, his scream growing in intensity until it’s no longer human, head jerked back and eyes glowing blue; thick, thick black smoke pours from the ground around him in streams, twirling into the air and wrapping around his wrists and ankles. More smoke pours from his mouth, condensing in the air in a big, tight ball, until something gives and it explodes outwards, the scream going with it.

His corpse remains upright for a few seconds before falling, with a deep finality, to the ground, fire crackling all around them.

Just when Cas is sure he’s going to pass out from the heat, Anna appears, in front of him, translucent and shaking but very much herself, figure unblemished. His Anna.

“Thank you,” she says, words shaking with an ethereal resonance. Castiel nods, hearing voices shouting through the flames, and feels himself slipping. The rest of the figures he’s seen earlier all appear, and Anna smiles. “Truly, we thank you, Castiel.”

“You’re welcome,” he gasps, clutching tighter to Dean’s lifeless form before sinking, once again.

 


	8. viii

_viii._

“Cas. Cas, c’mon, wake up. Cas. Cas?”

It’s Sam. It’s Sam, and the heat  is all around him, but the voices are closer. He just wants to sleep, though, with Dean. It’d be so much easier to sleep.

“Cas.” It’s Jessica now, chains clanging. “Please, Castiel, we need to get Dean to change back before they get here.”

That makes sense. Dean’s still Dean, glowing bright with slashed up wings. Dean. _Dean._

He sits up, grabbing Dean’s face with both hands. “Dean.” He says urgently, shaking him, “Dean, please, I need you to change back. If you can hear me, Dean, please change back.”

Nothing happens, his soot-covered skin covered in streaks of pearlescent blood. Cas can feel hot tears slipping down his cheeks, dripping onto Dean’s, marring the even black.

The tree. If he heals the tree, maybe it’ll heal Dean enough to bring him back—he has to try.

“Sam, take off your shirt.” He says, holding a hand out and clutching Dean’s shoulder, with the other pressed against the tree, breathing in and out, trying to ignore the smoke clogging his lungs. “And press it against the biggest gash in the tree.”

He murmurs the strongest healing spell he knows, knows it’s a long shot, that it’s dangerous, but he has to try, he has to—it takes effect and he feels himself slipping back, a part of him pulled into the tree, and Dean begins to rouse—

“It’s working!” Sam shouts, and suddenly Dean’s gasping, curling in on himself and shouting, grabbing at Castiel’s chest.

“Dean!” Castiel yells, falling from the tree, so little energy in his body that he can barely keep himself upright, “Dean, if you can hear me, please change back. I need you to change back.”

There’s no response, but he glows brighter, one hand clutched in Castiels shirt and the other spread right above his heart.

“Change for me, Dean.”

He screams, ear-piercing, like a jet plane hitting the sound barrier, and glows brightly, arching, and there’s hot, hot, scorching heat right above Castiel’s heart, burning, searing pain, and he screams with him. He closes his eyes, the light so bright it hurts him through his eyelids, and the pain, it hurts, it hurts, he can’t breathe—

—And the light dies down, a bloody owl the only thing in his place. Castiel gathers him in his arms, and falls into the blackness.

The next thing is a cold, cold mask placed over his head, blessed oxygen, and Dean being ripped from his arms—he tries to protest, but they’ve got him strapped down, a cold gurney, a cold truck, so many flashing lights and voices and noises and he doesn’t have Dean—

There’s a form on the second gurney pushed up next to him, Claire, covered in soot with EMT’s performing CPR—Jess is climbing in next to him, mask strapped to her face, and there are tear streaks through the ash on her face, but she’s not looking at him, she’s staring at Claire, and

He wakes in the hospital, tubes down his throat. They’re unfamiliar, and Dean’s not there, and there’s something in his throat and he can’t _breathe_ , nurses running in and holding him down, telling him to calm, to swallow, and he does.

They remove it minutes later, and he takes his first pure breath in what feels like years. There are bandages covering his chest, thick, and a nurse steps in after all the others have left, and the first thing Castiel notices is that her scrubs have bees on them.

“Hello, Castiel, I’m Tamara,” is the first thing she says, pen clicking as she looks over his chart. “You’re a very lucky man. Do you know why you're here?”

He looks at her, confused. His throat was still sore from the tubes, and they’d advised him not to speak.

“You had some of the worst out of the four of you pulled out of the fire. You’ve got second-degree burns directly over your heart, and had to undergo endotracheal intubation to prevent respiratory failure. You were out for two days. You seem to be doing just fine now, though, which is wonderful.”

Well, at least there’s some good news.

She pulls down his blankets, checking his bandages. “Rate your pain on a scale of one to ten, one being no pain and ten being the worst.”

He clears his throat wincing. “Three.”

“Great.” She smiles. “Well, it seems you’ll be doing well enough to be going home very soon. Forty-eight hours, I’d say. Is there anything else?”

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. “Claire, Claire Moore, how is she?”

Tamara hesitates. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you anything at this time.” His heart sinks, thinking the worst. She’d tell him if she died, right?

“Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything,” she says, closing the door to his private room behind him.

He doesn’t know what to do with his time. His chest is tight and hot, and walking around seems extremely unappealing. The memories of that night are coming back, of Dean curled up in agony, and the image of Claire being wheeled into the ambulance next to him, lifeless, the most common one. There are voices in his head whispering that they’re both dead, that he’s stupid for ever thinking otherwise. He lets himself slip back into sleep.

The next day he does walk around a bit, getting used to his range of motion. Hospital food is not the best, and he finds himself getting antsy, waiting for his release.

He’s sitting in bed, clicking through channels on the television when his door clicks open, Jessica stepping in.

“Hey.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. Castiel turns the TV off.

“Hello, Jess.” He hesitates, looking her over as he pulls a chair up to his bed. “How are you?”

“Tired.” She shrugs. “I’ve been spending most of my time with Claire.”

“Is she okay?” Castiel asks cautiously.

She heaves a sigh. “She’s––in a coma. They say she should be waking up soon, but, I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel breathes. He can’t help but feel responsible.

“Yeah. Anyways, I’m here to apologize.” She finally looks him in the eye for the first time in their conversation.

“Apologize?” Castiel frowns. “There’s no need. You did what you did for Claire, I understand that.”

“I know, but, if I had been truthful with you in the beginning, none of this would have happened.” Her eyes are watering up, and Castiel doesn’t want her to cry.

“Jessica, I have learned in this year that sometimes there are things we have no control over. There are some things we could never have prevented. Do not place blame on yourself for something like that. Crowley had said he’d been at this for centuries. He did the same to my sister. Yours survived. You have nothing to apologize for.”

She’s crying now, tears spilling onto her dress.

“I forgive you, Jessica.”

She’s wiping her tears, nodding. “Thank you.”

Tamara steps in, knocking on the wall.

“I don’t mean to interrupt anything, but it’s time to change Castiel’s dressings.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I should go,” Jess says, standing up. She grips Castiel’s hand before she leaves, smiling, and he feels something warm tug at his heart.

He catches a peek of the burn while the nurse sprays on more ointment, and it looks suspiciously like Dean’s sun mark.

They let him go the next day, Sam waiting to pick him up. The ride back into Fox Hollow is quiet, and he can feel the burn throbbing, the pain medication they’d given him sitting in a trash bin somewhere back at the hospital. But there was something else. Excitement, maybe?

He doesn’t know, but he knows it’s foreign, only strengthening as they approach the turn into his cottage. There’s a stranger’s car sitting in the driveway, and he frowns at it.

“So, uh, don’t freak out or anything, but I have a little surprise for you,” Sam says, grinning at him from the car. Castiel instantly feels himself beginning to freak out. He hates surprises.

He slowly climbs out of the car, mindful of his injury, and sees another woman getting out of the car in front of them. She’s got something perched on her arm, and Castiel’s heart sings, thumping double time as he jogs over, just in time to see the owl screech and shift, and it’s Dean, whole and uninjured, and it’s all Cas can do not to not completely collapse into his arms, kissing him with everything he’s got.

He hears Sam laughing in the background, but he doesn’t care, because Dean’s here, he’s _alive_ , whole and well, and lets himself sit in Dean’s arms, wings folded over him, hiding them from the world.

Eventually, they pull back after a loud throat-clear, but Cas can’t help but keep touching Dean, continually reminding himself that he’s real, not another phantom like Anna.

“So, Cas, this is Amelia,” Sam introduces, looking quite amused. Amelia’s still blinking, eyes raking over Dean.

Finally, she says, “What are you?” and Dean chuckles.

“I’m a god.”

She blinks again. “I’ve been taking care of a god for the last five days?”

Sam coughs into his hand, still smiling. “Amelia’s a vet, specializing in birds. I brought Dean to her after the paramedics took him off you.”

“Ah.” Castiel’s finally caught up. “Do you need me to pay you anything?” he asks, pulling Dean tighter to his side. There’s the foreign thing again, a burst of emotion that doesn’t belong to him, but it’s warm, so very warm, almost like… love.

“Uh, no,” she says finally, shaking her head. “I think I’m just gonna go, and we can forget anything ever happened.” She quickly climbs into her car, and Dean chuckles.

“What?” Cas asks, thoroughly confused.

“She’s afraid of me,” Dean says. “That’s always a fun reaction.”

“I need to get back to the hospital,” Sam sighs. “Claire still hasn’t woken up, but she’s breathing on her own, so that’s a good sign.”

“I could—” Dean starts, but Sam waves him off.

“Jess is really wary of magic right now. I doubt she’d let you.”

“Tell us when she wakes,” Cas calls out and Sam nods.

“You’ll be the first to know.”

They wave goodbye and step inside, and then Dean’s all over him, hands running over every inch of him, stopping when he feels the bandages through Castiel’s shirt.

“Are you okay? What happened?” he asks, worried, and Cas can feel it, feel his concern, and it all snaps into place.

“You’re really asking me that?” he chuckles, but then sobers. “I think you burned me, somehow.”

Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he yanks Castiel’s shirt off. He pulls the bandages back, then turns white.

“What?” Cas asks, suddenly worried.

“I uh, I marked you. Bonded with you, it a more accurate term.”

“ _What?_ What does that even mean?”

“Well,” Dean sighs, rubbing the side of his head, “I think, uh, I thought I was dying, and my powers tried to push themselves into the nearest mortal around so that the god could keep living. But, obviously, I survived, so, uh.” He seems awkward about the whole thing, rubbing at the back of his neck. “You can probably feel most of my emotions, and you probably got a power boost, or something, I don’t really know, it’s only happened one other time that I can think of.”

“It’s not just you, Dean.” Cas smiles. “I tried to heal you using a dangerous spell; part of me to heal part of you, and it worked. So I guess it’s a two-way bond.”

Dean presses his forehead against Castiel’s, wings folding around him. “What am I feeling right now?” Dean whispers, and Cas lets it fill him, an easy smile filling his face.

“You love me,” he breathes back.

Dean’s eyes are wide, wide spots of green.

“Don’t worry,” Cas hums, intertwining their fingers. “I love you too.”

* * *

**  
  
  
**

The burn heals quite well, to everyone’s amazement, the scar forming an almost identical match to Dean’s mark. It gets colder, the reds and oranges seeping fully into the trees and the wind begins to bite at any exposed skin, but Cas is warm inside, knowing Dean is always with him, right above his heart.

Halloween day he finds himself standing on the bank of Harmony Creek, Anna’s necklace curled around his fist. Halloween was Anna’s favorite holiday; she always dressed up as a fortune teller, and was always the only one laughing. He smiles at the memory.

It was time to let her go, he’d decided. He lets the necklace hang from his fingers, the quartz stone dangling over the fast-moving, freezing waters.

“Be at peace,” he whispers to the open air, letting the stone fall.

He swears he sees a flash of red as it hits the water.

 


End file.
